It's Always The Wife's Fault

Last night, Biggy and I went out for Italian with friends, a couple, (quite unusual, as we don't have many friends, much less in couples), and had a lovely, child-free evening, with real conversation that didn't revolve around band practice, who's getting Lo what days after school, or the Florida football game. Pretty much my idea of Heaven.

We got home around 9:30, and I let the dogs out. By the time I got upstairs, my husband was in bed. I don't mean on the bed; I mean in bed technically, in nothing but boxers, his clothes scattered on the floor. I plopped down beside him. ON the bed:

Biggy: You wanna go out?

TR: Nah, not really.

Biggy: You're a stick in the mud.


Rupert said...

d'oh - he was taking a quick disco nap, and would have been out cajun dancin w you in a heartbeat - any man can see that . . .

A said...

he was probably resting up for Florida to demolish Rocky Top. you were probably, too, in your heart.

biggy said...

Another fine example of creative writing by my lovely bride. And how 'bout dem Gators!!!!

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