Four Years Later

 

My Daddy was a great man. I say that with as much humility as I can, but he truly was of greatness. He was one of those people that chose simplicity because in simplicity there is kindness. There is warmth. There is love. He chose those things even though he had the mind of a genius, lighting wit, a star-appeal personality, and a very handsome face. There he is... sitting on the porch steps of the house he and my mother built with their bare hands after a long day of work outside. He's not smiling (which he did quite often), rather he's been caught in the solitude of his thoughts. He's undoubtedly mulling over the places he could have gone or the titles he could have held. But it seems he wanted to be a big fish in a small pond. Not because of his ego, but because he genuinely loved helping people. In a small pond, he had more chances to help and give of himself in the most meaningful of ways. Granted, he had his problems, and I'll tell you about those later. Right now, I just want to talk about how much I love him and how much I was shaped by him.

When Daddy died, it seemed everyone had a story to tell about how he had let them know in some way that he was fine, he was watching over us, and he was happy, except for me. It's been almost four years since we held his hands and watched him cross over, and I have had nothing but haunting dreams about the almost four year battle he waged against the consuming blackness that is cancer. I have had dreams that he was there, but he was sick. The house they lived in, the house of my youth, was in shambles, down to the frame and subfloor, and he was bed-ridden. I've dreamt he was skin and bones and being helplessly pulled along a dusty trail in a wagon. I've dreamt I found him in the bottom of a shower, shrunken, shivering, and drowning in the steady stream of the showerhead in his blue cotton pajamas. I have been relentlessly haunted by the memory and depth of the process of losing him, and until now I haven't been visited by anything hopeful in regards to his passing. Anything that felt like him.

A few weeks ago I felt like he told me why he hadn't worried about me. He knows I think like he does. I have an analytical mind and a good sense of humor. I love to help people and animals, and I would rather be able to help people in need than have all the money in the world. He knew that I wouldn't worry whether he was okay in the afterlife. I understand that the things he did for people are the chiefest of commandments and the greatest good we can do while on Earth. Losing him would prepare me to be strong for others during this magnitude of loss, and he knew that would make me feel connected to him. But I needed a visit of my own. I know that he is fine now, and I know that he is at peace. I needed him to acknowledge me and the pain that I feel in not having him around. It sounds selfish when I say that, but I grew up being comforted by him. I needed him to tell me that he sees my grief, and that he has never left my side. The grief I experienced while he was dying, when I saw his spirit being broken, when I saw his body give way to the disease, that grief was felt as he grew sicker and sicker. The grief I feel now is a desperate ache of missing him, and quite honestly, it's about me not being able to cope with the fact that he's not physically here anymore.

Well, until lastnight. Almost four years later, he decides to visit me. In my dream, I was at the Hackberry Community Center for some reason, and there was a party going on there. I was with John, and a lot of people I know from my home town were there. A lot of people I don't know were also in attendance. Daddy walked up to me out of nowhere and gave me a big hug. He was rosy-cheeked, walking upright, and dressed like I remember him. He was well. I immediately broke down in tears.

"Daddy!" I exclaimed through a wavering voice. "I've missed you so much."

"Hey, Julie Girl. I've missed you, too."

"Why did you wait so long?" I asked, almost in a whisper.

Without answering, he turned to the person next to us whom I don't remember. "This is my daughter. I haven't seen her since I died. But I see when she composes a text to my phone and doesn't send it. I see when she writes letters to me and stories about me in her journal. I've sat and watched her cry, and you wouldn't believe how much she misses me. I have the best kids in the world." His blue eyes looking deep into my own, he finished with, "I'm proud."

Turning to me, he gave me one last squeeze and that big smile of his, and he was gone. Just like that. But just like that, I am changed. Even though I desperately miss him still, I know he knows how much I love, respect, and appreciate him, and how much I know I've learned from him. I am SO much like him, and I needed someone like me to know the depth of my pain. I needed to feel like someone connected with what I feel in every way. And so I say to him...

Thank you, Daddy, for that visit. I'm not sure what the semantics are like in going from dimension to dimension, but thank you for giving me that. Thank you for telling me that you're proud. Proud. It still makes my breath catch in my throat. Next time, try not to wait four years. It wouldn't freak me out if you visited me from time to time and told me something I needed to hear. You are my Daddy, and even though you don't have any skin, it doesn't mean I need you any less. I love you.

Julie Girl

Treat Jar

Hi. I haven't been here in a while. I've been sick and busy and depressed. Not the clinically depressed kind of depression where I need medication to keep me from jumping off the ledge. Just the worn out, I can't focus on anything but making myself feel good kind of funk. Anyways, I feel like I'm getting better, and I'm starting to bounce back some. I've missed you guys.

When I started this blog, I was afraid I would limit myself to a single topic with this blog title. I kind of did, but then I took the stance of, "I don't give a shit. I'm going to write what is amusing to me." This post deviates from my normal protocol, and it is about me and a typical day in my household.

Hubs and I are building a house. Well, we will be. As soon as the slab is poured. Hopefully next week if the weather keeps playing nicely. We have been tossing around the idea of getting a storage building for our glorious shit, so I thought this Thursday night after we finished "talking," I would just start packing. Huh. That'll freak him out. But it was just to get some shit out of the way and to go through all the stuff I'd like to throw away. I was in a bad mood, and I like to do this in a bad mood because I'm hardly emotionally attached to anything at a time like that. Usually I'm just like, "Fuck this trinket. We won't even like each other in a couple of years and I'll be storing this shit, and the bugs love to chew on stuff like this." or "Stick this piece of shit in here, maybe it will get bent out of shape or torn and I won't have to put it out at the new place. I can just say it got fucked in the move. But I'll say it nicely like 'I loved that exquisite piece of shit, but it didn't survive the move.'"

My Australian Shepherd, Sookie, started going a little nuts, so I knew it was time to go outside. I grabbed the treat jar with the liver treats in it. I have this weird habit of tossing things from hand to hand. I don't know why, but it's usually cylindrical objects like bottles of water. I use my right hand to throw it as hard as I can to my left hand from that distance. It's weird, but I'm owning it. Anyway, I tossed the treat jar from my right hand to my left, and I guess since it's square in shape and awkward when being sailed through the air, left hand missed and it just kept flying. I say I missed. I don't even think it registered to my left hand. In fact, if you were standing about ten feet in front of me, I bet it would appear I was just like, "Fuck this treat jar," and then just threw it to my left as if I were in a landfill. Still, I was kind of shocked when it hit the tile floor and shattered into a million pieces.

I cracked my rib coughing while I was so sick, and I swear it broke during another coughing fit I was awoken with one night. Needless to say, I was having a difficult time sweeping up the pieces. John came into the room to check and make sure everyone was alright and offered to sweep it up for me. But first he wanted me to look at something. "Here, come see this," he said. He was looking at some of his old sports memorabilia collection. So I sit down on the guest bed as he goes through the closet, "This is blah-de-blah's card when he went blah-de-blah. This guy was a nobody and then I blah-blah-blah signy-sign fucky-fuck card." This went on for like three minutes, and while I was interested in his collection and trying to be respectful, my mind was in another place. I think it was actually asleep. Then I just thought, "Crap. Treat jar." So I got up and went to get the broom and dust pan, and when I walked in there, Boo Boo (my elderly Pekingese) was finishing the last liver treat. I freaked inside. John came into the room again when he heard me dramatically scream, "Nooooooo!" I've included a picture of my Prince for effect.

Boo Boo

If you're soulless and for reasons that I just can't imagine don't have a dog, I will break this down for you. Liver treats are very soft, much like molding clay. I was certain shards of glass had stuck in the treats and therefore made their way into my tiny 10 year old dog's delicate digestive tract.

I looked at John and said, "He ate them all. He's fucked."

"Oh, shit." he replied.

So I said, "He's sleeping with us tonight."

John asked, "What are you going to do if something's wrong with him?"

"Uh, wake up and freak out." I retorted matter-of-factly, leaving off, "Then you're going to haul us to the vet." I would just be much too hysterical to drive.
I went to the bedroom, sat on the bed and put him on my rug, inspecting him for a little bit. He didn't seem to be displaying any signs of choking or anything like that. So I googled, "My dog ate glass." (Can I just mention as a side note - go type in the phrase, "my dog ate," and see if Google doesn't suggest a completely absurd list of topics.) The blogs suggested making him eat cotton. The following ridiculous exchange takes place between myself and Hubs:

"They said you can make them eat cotton because it surrounds the shards of glass, and they'll just poop them out without incident."

"How are you going to make him eat cotton?" John asked.

"Well, I could rub some cotton balls on my asshole." He gawked intently at me, so I felt the need to explain. "He loves the taste of his own asshole."

John blankly stared in my general direction as if to consider this idea. Not wanting to lose him, I was like, "Here. Rub them under your balls."

"I AM NOT DOING THAT." he replied, and got into the shower, shutting the door behind him and leaving me alone to consider how fucked up this entire conversation was and the fact that it was all my idea.

I dismissed the cotton balls, not wanting to launch into an inner dialogue with myself about how weird I am to me. Instead, I poured Boo Boo a cereal bowl full of cheese doritos. So far, there are no signs of injury nor internal bleeding. My brain, however, could use a band-aid or two I'm sure.

What. The. Fuck?

#5 - Alan Funt

Who:  Alan Funt, the man credited with the creation of Reality TV.

Why:  Because what the fuck would we be doing with our lives if we weren't keeping up with the Kardashians?

WARNING:  This post is going to be especially sarcastic and ranty.

I have not done much research on Alan Funt, except for the fact that he is credited with the creation of Reality TV, masterminding 1948's Candid Camera. While this one was not bad -- it made light of harmless pranks on unsuspecting "victims" and their reactions -- it spawned an affinity for reality television programs that gave birth to gems such as, "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo", "Real Housewives", and "Operation Repo". Now, there are some educational and entertaining programs out there, and I don't want to take anything away from them. But there is some real shit out there, too.

Many of today's Reality TV shows are responsible for numbing millions of drooling, blubbering, empty-headed Americans into a sleepy stupor for three HOURS a night or more. Here is a review of the five best, and when I say best, I mean the ones that make you want to shoot yourself in the eye hole the most, in descending order, in my humble opinion.

#5 - Reality Towing (in general):

I say in general, but I'd really like to start with Operation Repo by posing a lingering question in my mind. What, in the name of Nacho Libre's nutsack, is going on with Sonia's face?

I really do feel a tinge of guilt as I write about this. Generally, I am always looking for the good in people, and I hate that it has come to this. But WHAT THE FUCK? Why are repo shows so popular? First of all, it depicts people that are a lot of time at their rope's end financially, and they're losing all their shit. Why is that entertaining? Operation Repo, Lizard Lick, and now Jennifer Lopez, being the immense talent that she is (e.g. Gigli, Jenny from the Block, all the other shit she does), decided to start one of her own. It's called South Beach Tow, and it features such rich and dynamic characters as Bernice, "Bernice awf in dis bitch," and Mr. Fuck-You-and-Yo-Mama-Bring-it-Bitch Eddie. What is most disturbing to me, as with most of the worst Reality TV, is that America is eating this shit up like it is Manna from Heaven.

 

#4 - Keeping Up with the Kar-fuckhead-dashians

 

Although it's been said, many times, many ways... WHY THE FUCK ARE THESE PEOPLE FAMOUS? Really? Dat ass? Dat ass is apparently worn the hell out from the sports teams that it is accommodating of late. Also, Bruce Jenner has done a lot of actual good in the world, and he is arguably one of the best American athletes of all time. Why the hell has he married into this family of assholes, and what the fuck happened to HIS face? You understand that the people he is associating himself with are defective, and there is absolutely no reason that they should have a reality show, and here I am glorifying them. I must stop.

 

#3 - Real Housewives of Who Gives a Shit

 

This is a reality show where all of the women connive and backstab each other and have raging knock-down-drag-out fights in public. It's like if you took Stepford in sequins and lots of plastic surgery, and then got them all strung out on bath salts where they're clawing each others' faces off and slurring incoherent obscenities at Ruth's Chris. Trash. Almost all of them are fucking worthless, and yet here I am, discussing them as if they had done anything of merit at all, ever.

 

#2 - My Super Sweet 16

 

I am not going to say much about this show except that I would have been arrested for child abuse if I mothered one of these ungrateful little dragons. I'm not allowed to speak the way I want to about them because they are minors, but I would have been arrested so hard.

 

#1 - Here Comes Honey Boo Boo... for fuck's sake, kill me now.

 

There are a lot of reality shows that feature people from the South doing all manner of things such as hunting, fishing, cooking, etc. I don't have a lot to say about those shows, except that it takes all kinds. What I haven't seen in those shows, though, is gross exploitation of their children. Please do not watch this garbage. It is my opinion that this show reduces the net worth of the world.

"Listen, I understand the allure. Honey Boo Boo is a name that’s funny. It rolls off the tongue. Alana, age 6, apparently will say anything. Like, “A dollar make me wanna holler.” She’s all about money. And pageants. And winning. Oh, and drinking her “go-go juice” before each pageant, which is a mixture of Red Bull and Mountain Dew. It winds up the pudgy little girl, and she goes onstage to dance and prance and make faces that the judges truly seem to love."

(http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/bastard-machine/here-comes-honey-boo-boo-alana-mama-364933)

 

Listen, even though this little girl is obnoxious and probably entertaining to watch (I don't get it, but hey, my tastes are different), she is going to need many years of therapy to undo what this amount of exploitation has done to her childhood. And I'm sorry #1 wasn't funnier, but I can't exploit this little girl any more than she already has been, in good conscience.

 

 

So... I don't want to end this on a horrible note, and I'm trying to make the world a better place, so... Titty sprinkles and bitch burgers.

 

How:  I've done some sick shit in my life, but fucking a dead man isn't and will never be one of them. Perverts.

#4 - Lewis Black

Who:  Lewis Black

Why:  Son of a bitch, where do I start?

Aside from his striking good looks and the reknowned bedroom prowess of Jewish men (what, you haven't heard?), Lewis is the trifecta of things I look for in people that I want to lick.

1. Sense of humor (and I don't mean potty jokes or otherwise juvenile methodologies of chuckle induction)
2. Charitable works or acts that leave the world a better place than you found it
3. Intellect - He's smart as fuck.

"Lewis was born in Washington D.C. and raised in Silver Spring, MD. Colicky as a baby, it seems he was destined to be angry and easily irritated. His mother, a teacher, and his father, a mechanical engineer, instilled in both Lewis and his younger brother Ron the importance of education and the necessity to question authority; lessons which have influenced Lewis throughout his private and professional life." (http://lewisblack.com/bios/)

Lewis's father took him to the theater for his first play when he was 12 years old, and so began his love affair with drama. Boy, I bet he looks delicious in a pair of tights. See Left.

He is actually a brilliant playwright and boasts degrees from the University of North Carolina and Yale Drama School. He went to Yale, he co-owned a theater with some friends, and looky there, my nipples are hard.

It was at UNC that he ventured into standup, and it continued to be a staple in his portfolio while he pursued his career in theater as a straight man. I know, it's so cute. After moving to New York City, he developed his skills as a stand-up comedian, which is why I know who he is. And believe me when I tell you in all seriousness that he is one of the greatest comedians of all time.

I have urinated on myself more than once while listening to him, and there is nothing wrong with my bladder. He is an award-winning performer with credits such as four Comedy Central Presents specials, two HBO specials, and a long-running segment on the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, Back in Black. I could list his many awards and appearances here, but I'd rather post some quotes of shit he's said about the sheer absurdity of the fucked up reality we live in. Hold on to your pee-pees, these are hilarious.

“There's no such thing as soy milk. It's soy juice.”

“Each of us is full of shit in our own special way. We are all shitty little snowflakes dancing in the universe.”

“Just relax and breathe through your ass.”

“A republican stands up in congress and says 'I GOT A REALLY BAD IDEA!!' and the democrat stands up after him and says 'AND I CAN MAKE IT SHITTIER!!”

“I don't know if you've noticed, but our two-party system is a bowl of shit looking at itself in the mirror.”

“They're so broke that they've actually cut essential services. In many places, they've cut policemen, because, who the fuck needs them? Or firemen, son of a bitch, it's much more fun watching something burn down.”

“Now I must leave you as you enter the world that is Fuck. You are fucking lucky to be here. It's almost utopian.”

(On golf and the golfer's internal dialogue) - "I told you when you woke up this morning that you are a piece of shit... Here we are enjoying the day in the woods. Look, there's some poison sumac. Why don't you grab a couple of leaves and wipe it on your nuts; we haven't had it there... Why don't you reach into the bag and get another one of those five dollar beauties. Take that ball and shove it up your ass. Then, try to shoot it out your pee pee hole. If we'd spent the last 15 years doing that, at least we'd have a skill today."

If you haven't heard his standup, I suggest you get on the stick, Batman. Each piece is an hour long satirical review of middle America and the hilariously fucked up world we live in.

Okay, enough about the comedian. Let's talk about Lewis, the philanthropist. "In addition to his professional pursuits, Lewis is dedicated to a number of charitable organizations. As a long time mentor with the 52nd Street Project, Lewis was roasted in “Charred Black 2007” which drew the largest fundraising numbers in the Project’s history. He’s a member of their Advisory Board, is Co-Chair of their Capital Campaign and in 2000, the Ron Black Memorial Scholarship Fund was created in memory of his late brother. Lewis is also committed to raising funds for the Rusty Magee Clinic for Families and Health. He’s a strong supporter of both the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation and Autism Speaks and was recently honored by The Brady Center for his commitment to ending gun violence. At the Williamstown Theatre Festival, he established the William Foeller Fellowship, having taught and performed at the festival for more than a decade."

The third corner of my unholy trifecta - Intellect. Well, it's obvious in the quotes that I gave you that he's quite the thinker. He will dry hump your brain into ecstacy with his comedy, as well as his books which include, "Nothing Sacred," and "I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas." His dry, bitter, irreverent delivery of well thought out ideas will send you over the edge into utter incontinence.

How:  High as shit, to the tune of "Lay, Lady, Lay" on a record player

#3 - Paula Freaking Deen

Photo borrowed from Paula's Facebook page.

Who:  Paula Deen

Why:  First of all, Paula is a real materialization of the American Dream. She also never dreamt her Southern as apple pie self would end up becoming an American icon, and her humility is very endearing to me. Paula has an awesome story. Plus, she guest starred in South Park which is one of my favorite shows, so yeah. She's on my secks list just like Randy Marsh.

Look at her smile. LOOK AT IT. Shining, bright, white. Eyes as blue as the freaking sky. She is beautiful and kind, and sweet as cotton candy, y'all. "Paula has become an American phenomenon, overcoming poverty, doubt and agoraphobia to achieve success and acclaim she could never have imagined. Yet the most remarkable part of Paula Deen’s journey from her kitchen to fame and fortune is that Paula has remained every bit as genuine, real and full of love as the first meals to leave her kitchen." (From Paula's bio on her website, www.pauladeen.com.) Read on. This shit really happened.

1. She's real. She's struggled just like everyone else. Her parents both died before she was 23. My dad passed away over three years ago, and I am still reeling. I just can't imagine how it would feel to lose them both. Paula was also blessed with panic attacks and agoraphobia throughout her 20's... "Your blessings are raining down on me. Wait! That's not rain!" That quote was from Bruce Almighty, so don't get mad at me for being irreverent.
2. Paula decided that there was something she could do with all of her frustration AND still not have to leave the house because of her crippling social panic. She cooked.
3. After being married for 24 years to her high school sweetheart, they divorced, and she was left with $200 to her name and the burden of raising two young boys and her younger brother.
4. Instead of playing the victim like so many others have chosen to do, Paula overcame her anxiety problems to try a number of career paths until she started a catering service, making meals that her boys delivered.

It wasn't long until her business outgrew her kitchen, and the rest, as they say, is in Rome. Or whatever. After becoming a star, Paula found love again and married Michael Groover at the Bethesda Home for Boys in Savannah, GA. The Bethesda Home for Boys. That's her charity of choice. Orphaned children. The woman is a dadnabbit saint.

This past year she came out about her several-year battle with Type 2 diabetes. She has received a lot of criticism because her recipes include pinches of butter here and there and various fats in minimal quantities. *snicker* This is really the meat and potatoes of what I wanted to talk about. Paula grew up eating these foods because it's part of her culture as a Southerner. She's not trying to kill you with obesity, and she doesn't walk around with a stick of butter in her pocket. That would stain her clothes. She shared these recipes in the knowledge that most people with some fucking sense can gauge whether or not they're eating too many calories. That is your responsibility as the consumer of meals. Grow the fuck up and take some responsibility for your life and your arteries. The fact that she shares recipes for the nectar of the gods with you is a COURTESY, and you should be kissing her swollen feet for slaving over the stove and raining upon you flaky, golden nuggets of buttermilk manna. People are all mad at her for not setting a good example and whatnot. Profiting from her notoriety by selling foodstuffs that are high in calories and general goodness. It's not her responsibility to know your cholesterol count, you ignorant bitch. It's YOUR cholesterol.

In honor of Paula, I am declaring this day, November 16th, Paula Freaking Deen Day. On this day I will post an awesome picture of Paula on my blog every year. Since she graced the screen of my favorite satirical cartoon, her cartoony portrait is going up this time. You're welcome.

 

How:  I would totally let her bathe me in a tub of melted butter and feed me pie.

#2 - L.L. Big time.

Photo by Michael Wilson, hijacked from
Lyle's facebook page because I stalk him like that.

Who:  Lyle Lovett (Not the L.L. you were thinking of, eh?)

Why:  All of my friends think I am quirky in the least, but mostly batshit crazy, for my obsessive worship of this man. I'll tell you just like I told them, "Bite my ass, I love him." Period. He is beautifully obscure. He is different and tasteful and eclectic. He writes brilliant lyrics and is arguably one of the best song writers ever born in Texas. Sure, he's wiry and not extremely good-looking by some standards of measure. (Although not good-looking by most standards of measure is actually attractive to me because I don't like cookie cutters or molds.) But his brain... I would secks that brain silly.

I haven't always been into him. I didn't actually yield to his resplendence until I was at the Big State Festival in Texas a few years ago with the douche bag of colossal magnitude that I used to be engaged to. (We will just call him DB in fond remembrance of his douche bag ways.) We were there to see Willie Nelson (who is also the dog's bollocks), but Lynyrd Skynyrd was playing on one of the stages at the time. I wasn't feeling it, and I got tired of sweaty dudes with weird accents showing off their underarm hair, so I started to walk around. I was extracted from my people watching by Lyle's soulful, folksy delivery. I walked toward his stage, opposite the corner Skynyrd was on, mesmerized by this glorious man that stood beside his choir of brethren. Tears rendered me almost visionless as my eyeballs stang with the salty product of my eargasms. I could hear my brain, "Lyle Lovett? Are you fucking kidding me? You're crying over Lyle Lovett?" Granted, my brain was familiar with the greatness of the kings and queens of classic country, soul, and blues and such, and that was really what she was taught to love all her life. But this was something different. I retorted, "Brain, you simple little bitch, shut the fuck up and listen."

Lyle lulled me into an actual place. It was a completely different world where people and lines and colors were smeared, and all that was left were beautiful strokes of sound, softly caressing over one another into a vibrant, harmonious masterpiece. I forgot how much of a jerk DB was (for a second, until he scratched himself). All I could listen to were the velvety vocal harmonies and minimalistic but impeccably timed and blended trills of the masterful instrumentalists. I was transported. I fell completely in love with Lyle, not exactly as the person, but as the artist. The guy standing in front of some infinitely delicate thing, contemplating on letting the droves in, maybe worried that they won't appreciate the essence of the spirit of the thing, but not hindered because he would rather the few see the beauty than noone at all. I don't know if you realize this, but I will tell you as an artist and writer myself, that takes monstrous balls. I have bathed in Lyle's brilliance ever since, and that is that.

If you've never given two shits about music or Lyle Lovett, you really ought to dabble. Do a taste test. I started with the, "It's Not Big. It's Large." album, then I worked my way back. His latest, "Release Me," is brilliant, too, and I'm pretty sure everything he touches turns to gold and that he pees pure liquid gold. He is into charities of various sorts and also loves to travel and has pictures of peacocks and pretty animals. But that is neither here nor there. I think the world would be a shithole without his music. Well, maybe not a shithole, but definitely a less interesting place for me, and that's reason enough. See for yourself in his completely classy and untarnished performance of the National Anthem:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h61Zi-8evsg. If this doesn't move you, and you are an American, there is something wrong with your soul.

How:  Slowly on a fluffly cumulus cloud with a dimmer switch on the sun and golden candles afire all over.

#1 - Okay, the obvious. Hubs.

Who:  John Dunning, my husband and chaperone

Why: He's a super duper great guy. He is generous, accepting, honest, compassionate, hard-working, the list goes on and on... He is also the only person I am legally allowed to secks. So if you're wondering if you can take me literally, ever, on this blog, the answer is 'nope'. At least not when I say I'm gonna hump someone into next week. We signed a contract, and we've been over it. It is a concise and binding agreement.

John comes from good stock. His entire family is the same way. They are some of the most generous people I have ever met, and I have met Mother Teresa. Okay, I never actually met her, but that point was important for making my case of how generous my in-laws are. And honest. And kind.

John has a knack with all things mechanical. He learned much of that from his father. If it's broken, he can fix it if he has the right tools and fixin' things, and that's pretty hot. He learned how to work until you're literally going to drop from his Momma. John would rather die than tap out. He has awesome man-handling arms, and he is at times (at least I think) supernaturally strong. He's a good shot, and that will come in very handy in a zombie apocolypse. John and his ex-wife raised two of the most well-behaved children you could ever meet. Well, they're adults now, but I'll kiss your ass if you catch them not minding their Ps and Qs. Though he came from pretty humble beginnings, John and his partner started a successful company and have been running for over 10 years, and stayed afloat even during the economic crisis. He has laser beam focus, and I severely lack any semblance of that. He likes to listen to music and... TADA! I'm a singer. We go together like peas and carrots. Sometimes peas and jelly beans... but mostly peas and carrots.

Also, if I tried to write a blog about people I would secks, and since I'm legally obligated to secks my husband, I think it only appropriate to talk about him. But he is all that and a batmobile.

How:  Any way he wants it except for the way(s) I find repulsive or too painful to consider. Nowhere does that contract say anything about that. We've been over it. ;-)