My husband, J - you all have heard me mention him once or twice - is forever checking out the ladies.
It doesn't bother me until he is slamming on the brakes on the 76 on-ramp, craning his neck to see a female driver coming from the opposite direction.
"What the hell, man?" I ask, as Ninja's tiny body ricochets through my rib cage.
"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "I was checking out that chick."
Eh. At least he's honest.
It never bugs me. J's never given me any reason to be jealous, and as long as he keeps checking me out as well - and oh, nine months prego me is unspeakably sexy, what with the flatulence and the incessant grunting each time I attempt to turn over in bed - we're cool. I won't begrudge him a little eye candy, and besides, this is a two-way street. I am a notorious flirt.
Gah - what was I saying?
Oh yes. So last night! How I Met Your Mother was a rerun, and you couldn't pay me to watch David Spade smarm about on that abysmal Rules of Engagement show.
So I did as you do: I flipped to Dancing with the Stars.
"I want to see that hot guy that dances with Erin Andrews," I explain, as soon as J starts whining for me to change the channel already.
"Erin Andrews - she's HOT." (Emphasis: J.)
"Really?" I ask. "I mean she doesn't really have the body type you generally like." Read: huge ass.
"She's just BEAUTIFUL," my husband tells me. "She's not sexy or cute."
Damnit. She is beautiful. Shut up, J.So here we have it, kids. My beloved believes that all "hot" women can fall into any one of three categories:
Pretty/BEAUTIFUL like Erin Andrews.
For the last five years, I have fallen into all three of these categories, which, my H explains, is why I am such a catch. Aw.
So imagine my CONSTERNATION (emphasis: HomeValley) when last night, watching Niecy Nash jiggle her jubblies, my husband said to me:
"Yeah... You're not cute anymore."
"J! You're a bastard. How can you say such things to your wife who is 36 weeks pregnant? Take it back!"
The man just laughs. And goes on to explain that in my extremely pregnant state, I am somewhat: harsh.
Perhaps irritable? Stabby? Murderous?
"Whatever, J," I sulk. "Take it back!"
"Maybe... It depends on how cute you are when you write about this incident tomorrow on your blog."
"Haaaaaaaaaaaa. I am going to annihilate you, J."
How does one respond to such vicious attacks on one's inherent - if currently concealed - adorableness? I am thinking some creative sentencing: like forcing him to watch Jon and Kate Plus Eight marathons, or any show on TLC for that matter?
Any day now (please?) my tiny tenant will be evicted, and order will be restored to the universe.