Happy To Be Stuck With You

I know I just blogged four days ago, but today, I realized that I missed our blog anniversary last month. I hope you aren't upset. I know, I didn't get you anything. It's just money is really tight right now, but I love ya just the same.

Yesterday marked the 19th year of shackedupdom for me and my old man. Mr. Lane was as smooth as curdled milk back in the day. He acted as if being from California was so different than being from Illinois that he said, "Hey Lois, you know I like you and stuff, right?"

"Um.. yeah?"

"Well, I don't know how you say it here, but like, umm... would you want to be like... my girlfriend or something?"

"Something?"

"Oh come on, you know what I mean. Do you wanna like... date... and stuff?"

"What is this 'and stuff' you speak of? Is that Californian for screw? You know I don't speak that lingidy. Plus, I'm not that kind of girl!"

Wringing his hands and staring at the floor, he asked, "Is that like a yes?"

Hanging myself upside-down, nose-to-nose with him, making him look at me, I said, "Like fur-sure."

That was how this whole thing started. It's hard to believe I've spent more years of my life with that man than I have without him. A couple of years ago, I told the long-winded version of how I met Mr. Lane. The Story of Us ended at chapter seven in the spring of 2006 here on Home Fires, should you be curious about that part of our lives, you can read all about it in the archives or Cold Ashes on the sidebar to your lower right. I think part 1 was mid-March.

It seems fair, to write about that man who has been my best friend, coffee buddy, partner in crime, sidekick, comic relief, writing material giver upper, lover, and biggest pain in my ass since that hemorrhoid I had last year. Skipping many a run-ins with that little California Raisin, I'll fast forward a bit to... this morning.

But first I need to rewind a second to tell you about my friend Mary. She made me a Christmas gift based on a blog post of mine she read. Learning that her friend is not only experiencing a graying beaver, but also one that seems to be balding at a rather alarming rate, she bought a thong for me. She also bought some faux fur and proceeded to sew it onto the thong.




Here's her masterpiece, which may be my favorite gift received this year.

We laughed our asses off because nothing says, "Hey friend, merry Christmas!" quite like a twat toupee.

Mary said she thought it best for me to show, rather than tell Mr. Lane, who wasn't home when I received this lovely gift.

Per her instructions, I closed myself into the bedroom, took off all of my clothes, put on my petable panties, and called him into the bedroom.




Mr. Lane's reaction to me modeling Mary's handy work.

And then something triggered his internal cross dresser, and he said, "Let me try them on. I want to freak the kids out."

Not one to turn away a chance at scarring my kids for life, or laughter or blog material, I whipped those suckers off and handed them to him, giggling all the while. I had to help him "tuck and fold" so no bits or pieces would show. He wouldn't let me take a picture of him modeling them, so here's how the kids reacted to seeing their dad wearing them.




How much therapy are they going to need?

Lane 2 screamed and ran, hiding her eyes.




Mr. Lane, invading his personal space, asked Lane 1 if he wanted to snuggle. To which, I believe the boy gagged.




Lane 1 was so appalled that his father suggested he wished he had a pair of his own, that the wrestling began. I'm sorry Mary had already gone home and missed the action.

I broke up the wrestling match because from my angle (sparing you the image) it seemed more than a bit or piece was fixin' ta fall out, if ya know what I'm sayin'.

When people ask how to make a marriage work, or ask how we've stayed together all these years, I never really know what to say. But moments like these sure do make me want to stick around to see the next crazy thing this man has up his sleeve...or thong.