The Husband and I were sitting in bed last night, where the magic rarely happens, seeing as though The Children don't know that they're not suppose to stand outside our locked door and ask questions like-How come they call it a sandwich when there's no sand it in? Or my favorite is when they knock on the door and shout into the crevice- I'M BORED.
Anyways, we were watching a movie and I was trying to get comfortable among my hareem of feathered pillows. In doing so I bumped my b**b which hurt because I'm one of the lucky ones that got a prescription for painful br*ast fibroids out of the Cracker Jack box back in 1996. I usually get the weird prizes. I've also noticed that my n**pples are often sore like they've been pinched.
So the pillow talk began.
My n**pples are sore. It's your fault.
Yeah, now along with monster fibroids each month I have sore n**ples. They feel sore all the time like they've been pinched and twisted. And it's your fault.
The Husband with a confused expression: How is that my fault?
Remember ten years ago, back before you realized they were actually attached to my body and had nerves in them, you'd play that stupid game where you were trying to find radio reception. You had lame sound effects and all. Stop pretending like you're senile. Surely you remember. I began to question whether I should have ever married you. It hurt and now my n**pples are broke.
Looking totally puzzled now: What are you talking about? You can't be serious. You had four children chewing and gnawing on them for like five years each and you're telling me it's my fault that your n**pples hurt? That's insane.
That's not it. Besides, it was three out of four kids. Not four. Get it right.
Are you sure? Wasn't there some neighbor kid or something?
Phish-whatever. I'm not talking to you anymore.
And that was our pillow talk for the night.