So the Hardware Store is All About Who Has the Biggest Penis?

We are redoing our kitchen and dining room and that is as much detail as you will get because, let’s be honest, that’s as much detail as most people are interested in when hearing that someone is redoing their kitchen. And let’s be even more honest, if someone actually presses you for detail on exactly what you are doing to your kitchen, it’s so women can judge your design choices, and men can judge how you’re going about the redesign. And if I’ve learned anything since we’ve embarked on this journey a week ago, home repair for men is all about expressing how manly they are.

Ladies, important: the size of a man’s tools is directly proportional to his virility. That is the main thing they want us to know.

We were at Lowe’s when Calm-ass Husband muttered something about needing a leveler. We had one once, it was about the size of a hammer, maybe a bit longer. That’s what I was expecting.

He came back with this:

My that's an impressive tool you have there.

My that’s an impressive tool you have there.

I also saw another man had been in the leveler department at the same time as CAH, so I can only imagine that their internal monologues looked like this:

CAH: Ah, here’s the leveler I had in mind when I first walked over here.

Other Man: Look how small his leveler is….I’m going to grab this one, one size up.

CAH: Fuck, he just grabbed the bigger leveler. Well I see your mid-sized leveler, and raise you the next size up.

Other Man: Oh you wanna rumble brah? Well look at the size of THIS leveler, *BAM* in your face. I might even slap your forehead with it.

At which point CAH picked up the biggest leveler they had and held it in the air all He-Man-style and yelled, “I HAVE THE POWERRRRRRRRRR!!!!”

Ironically, CAH is too young to remember this.

Ironically, CAH is too young to remember this.

Note: Ok, CAH is telling me that there was a bigger leveler he could have chosen, but it was almost $60. Which I think shows his security in his manhood since cost came before the biggest leveler, so he settled for the second biggest. Actually, I guess it shows that he’s *almost* completely confident in his manhood. Maybe about 90%.

Now that I’m married I have to pretend to listen to a lot of stuff and act like I’m interested (he lucked out because, as we all know, every guy loves to hear about what you saw on Pinterest for an hour-and-a-half). This is tough now that we are doing kitchen work and all I want to do is come up with the ideas of how to make things look pretty while my husband figures out the stuff like “wiring” and “ladders” and “safety precautions”. But unfortunately he insists on telling me all about “his” part of the redesign, and when I’m bored out of my skull when someone is talking, I inevitably regress in maturity to pre-pubescent years. Not my pre-pubescent years, an 11 year-old-boy’s pre-pubescent years.

“So what we need to do to get the new ceiling fan installed,” explained CAH, “is to take off the cap of the old one and it should uncover a box tha-…really? You’re giggling? Anyways, so that box should have some wires shoved in it an-….seriously, Jess? How old are you? Anyways, we should find the wires we need if we poke around in there enough an-….ok, how did you even make that sexual? ANYWAYS, if we use a regular bulb we can make the light dim an-….sigh….you can’t just start removing clothing to distract every guy who is saying something that bores you.”

“Um, how do you think I passed college chem?”

So I guess this whole post is to tell you all that I will be skipping WINK Wednesday tomorrow because we are kind of slammed and my kitchen and dining room are in total disarray. I do, however, have an awesome Vagina Fun Facts From Florida Friday this week, so be ready!

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I Got a Brain Boner Which Made Me Redesign My Site

Me: I love like, getting a brain boner
Calm-ass Husband: huh?
Me: Like when you have one idea, that then blows up into a full fledged ejaculation of ideas
CAH: wow
Me: And I’ve had the biggest brain boners all day. I am literally ejaculating a thick non-stop stream of ideas all over the place today.
CAH: Wow, that’s an awesome use of that term.

Today’s brain boner was brought on by all of you. My readers. I can be naive at times (I totally had to spell “evian” and then retype it backwards because I momentarily forgot how to spell “naive”), so I thought you all were just really sweet and committed by reaching out to me by email, or Facebook message, to tell me if you liked a blog post or my blog in general.

Not ONE of you could have told me that I had comments enabled like a fucking dick head?

I was starting to get thoroughly confused by the fact that, as my readership increased, my emails increased, but my comments were at nothing. So I did some research by way of actually taking 2 seconds to look at my site and saw that the “leave comments” section is barely visible.

So I had to do a complete site redesign, which involved kicking back in bed, in a tank top and a pair of shorts I bought at Walmart years ago because they look like something that would have been worn by Mork if him and Mindy decided to go their separate ways so he could finally realize his dream of being a human bukkake cracker at Studio 54, and cruising the free themes on WordPress.

Bukkake cracker shorts

Bukkake cracker shorts

I thought about putting something up on my site that looked all official like, “Site Currently Under Construction,” but since that construction consisted of me listening to Dolly Parton while I press “Make Live,” it wasn’t worth it to put that up for, like, 30 seconds. Plus, I don’t think it can be truly called construction if it doesn’t include sweaty men. Or at least my husband next to me, all sweaty, while I press “Make Live.” Which would be awesome because I love smelling his armpits and his junk when he’s sweaty.

Is that weird?

Thanks for letting my brain boner ejaculate on you today, I hope you find the new site more user friendly.

WINK Wednesday: A Review of Jen Kirkman’s Hilarious Book About Being Child Free, “I Can Barely Take Care of Myself”

Me: I need like, an hour warning before you come home from work today so that I can shower.
CAH: k…
Me: I realize that sounded shady as shit. I want to have dyed my hair and already showered before you get home, but I’ve been reading that new book by Jen Kirkman, so I am procrastinating doing it.
CAH: Oh ok!

This is what happens when I am half-reading, half-IM’ing my husband. I sound like I’m trying to get my side piece out of the house, and shower in time for the husband to come home.

I knew I wanted to do a review of Kirkman’s book for WINK Wednesday as soon as I heard about it, because it is about choosing not to have kids from a very funny lady who I first heard on my second favorite podcast, Ronna & Beverly. Since it IS WINK Wednesday, and this book involves not having kids, it seemed the perfect pairing.

Jen-Kirkman-Book-Cover-ICBTCOM

Speaking of pairing, WINK Wednesday means that there must be wine involved. I’d say this book pairs well with a wine juice box and some Vicodin.

BEFORE I CONTINUE THIS REVIEW THAT INCLUDES MY OWN COMMENTARY:

I want to mention some great mom friends to whom the upcoming commentary does not apply*:

1. Persephone

2. Spectacu-tits

3. Misty

4. Blah blah

5. Tanqueray Trickmommy ***

6. Magic Mountain **

7. Ham Sandwich

8. El Chupa Mombra

9. Shannon

* In the interest of privacy, I have changed all their names. But those of you mom friends reading this, you know who you are and feel free to assign yourself whichever name you’d like.

** Yes, I know, this is the name of a sexual position. It’s actually how her kid was conceived.

*** To S: I know you will want to be Tanqueray Trickmommy, but in my head, you’re Spectacu-tits.

Jen Kirkman hit the sperm on the pill-protected egg when it comes to being a woman who doesn’t want kids in today’s overly-obsessed baby society (that sounds obnoxiously book-reportish, but I’ve rewritten it at least 6 times, so it surprisingly sounds less book-reportish than the original sentence). It’s like she emptied my brain and put it on paper, but peppered it with her own stories, which are way more interesting than mine.

Here are some key takeaways from Kirkman’s book:

1. Pretending you are a few weeks pregnant at a nail salon may just get you some free neck massages AND a free mani/pedi from the overly-baby-enthusiastic salon workers, which is fucking brilliant. (Don’t judge. How many of you pretended you were pregnant just to get your ex-boyfriend to call you back? This is nowhere near that on the “Fucked up things you’re trying to get out of faking a pregnancy” scale)

2. I’m not the only one who finds that mothers inappropriately talk about their own bodily functions, as if the rest of us non-parents are OK with listening. I totally get that, once you’ve given birth and all of your self-pride and ability to be embarrassed are out the door because you’re crotch-up in front of an audience with every concievable bodily fluid spurting out like a Twirly Whirly Sprinkler, you have a way different view on bodily functions. But for the love of God, stop feeling free to be flatulent in front of me, or talk to me about you pooping. Because I have not had a drink of that Kool-Aid and I find it disgusting.

3. My favorite quote of the book: “I think that childfree by choice is the new gay. We’re the new disenfranchised group. People think we’re irresponsible, immoral sluts and that our lifestyle is up for debate.” THANK YOU! I know, you’re reading this thinking, “But being gay isn’t a choice and having kids is.” It’s all about how we live our lives and what makes us happy. If having kids makes you happy, great, but don’t assume it’s for everyone.

Jen Kirkman has some great new insight into the life of women (and men) who don’t want kids, but perhaps what I love best is that she echoes a lot of things that many of us DINKS/WINKS have been saying for ages. I find the echoed sentiment just as important as her own unique insight because I’m hoping that, if enough of us unite and continue to repeat the same stupid questions and commentary we get, eventually it will get back to the twat waffle moms and, the minute they open their mouths to regurgitate their proclamations over how we are wasting our lives, they will realize it is, in fact, cliche at this point, and just shut it.

The truth is, there are a lot of great moms out there who aren’t self-righteous twat waffles. And in reality, self-righteous twat waffle moms are just self-righteous twat waffles in general, but now they have a new lens through which to project their twat-waffliness.

And let me end with something that has been popping up a lot recently: those of you saying that being a parent is an underappreciated job, or a full time job, or a thankless job. I’m actually not going to debate that you’re probably unappreciated, overworked and totally tired. I just wanted to let you know the definition of job, because I think you are confusing “job” with “self-imposed responsibility.” A job is a “paid position of regular employment” (dictionary.com). It is where one trades goods and/or services for money. Unless your baby is helping me pick out a cardigan to go with my new red Gap jeans, this is not a job. Your child is of absolutely no service to me or society. And don’t give me the whole, “Well, s/he could someday cure cancer,” because s/he may also be the future Florida face eater or Joseph Kony (I finally got to mention that guy’s name and can now point to a useful reason that I watched that fucking video).

It is a responsibility of huge magnitude, there is no denying that. But it won’t be long before your kid asks you for a new pet. You will likely grant that child their request, on the condition that they promise to help take care of it. When, 3 months down the line, the kid complains about the responsibility because it is cramping their X-box/dolly dress up time, you will remind them that it is something that they wanted and that it is their responsibility. So for those of you complaining now, let us remind you that, those kids are something that you just HAD to have and we TOLD you it was going to be a big responsibility when you drunkenly confided in us over martinis that you stopped taking your pill a month ago and hadn’t told your husband. We are not going to applaud your decision for having unprotected sex just because your suddenly feeling unappreciated for your choices. We TOLD you!

To the above mentioned 9 ladies I know personally, you’re all doing a great job, don’t change a thing.

Get Jen Kirkman’s book, I can barely take care of myself.

I Think My Husband Has a Dead Person Fetish, and You All Need to Stop Molesting Snakes

I had a debate with the Calm-ass Husband not long ago, which I’d like to briefly recall because I believe I caught him going against his own argument. It went down like this:

WAW: I think if you die first, I should be able to molest your body. Just one last time.
CAH: Sigh….are we really having this conversation?
WAW: I’m just saying, it’s illegal to molest a corpse but I think it shouldn’t count if it’s your spouse. I mean, you can basically do whatever you want to their body while they’re alive, why should it change when they’re dead?
CAH: Because they are dead, so they can’t give consent.
WAW: So write me a note.
CAH: I’m not writing you a permission slip to molest me after I die, and what if you die first?
WAW: Well I will obviously write you a note, too.
CAH: This is gross.
WAW: I’m not saying it isn’t gross, I’m just saying it should be allowed. You’re my freaking husband, I don’t have the right to have one last go at you?
CAH: Yes, fine, do whatever you want to my dead body.
WAW: Can I get that in writing?

So, CAH seems on the anti-dead-body-molesting camp, right?

Well let me bring you to Exhibit A, this past Friday:

My ass getting white girl wasted on 3 martinis (See, this is the shit that happens when I scale down on my drinking, my alcohol tolerance dips to embarassing levels. Also, I didn’t have much to eat that day.) and was so hungover that I slept literally all day Saturday.

Every song that came on I screamed, "OMG This is SO meeeee!!!"

Every song that came on I screamed, “OMG This is SO meeeee!!!”

I woke up late Saturday evening. It is now 24 hours later and CAH has been all over me like white on rice. He even took me to the adult toy store today for a look-see.

Now I ask you, why the hell is me being passed out apparently such a freaking aphrodisiac for my husband who is ALLEGEDLY against molesting the dead?

And more importantly, WHY THE HELL IS THERE A FUCKING EMERGENCY SNAKE BITE KIT AT THE ADULT TOY STORE?

You people need to stop putting snakes in places they don't belong!

You people need to stop putting snakes in places they don’t belong!

I don’t want to know, but I kind of do. But I mostly don’t. Out of concern for the snakes.

I tested my theory of CAH having a dead people fetish by randomly falling over on the ground in front of him, just to see if there were any stirrings in his fun zone, but mostly he started out with looks of concern, followed by looks of annoyance and impatience as the day went on and I was nearing double-digits of fake fainting.

These are the thoughts that I am leaving you with today, before I finish researching coffee enemas to detox my pissed-off body:

1. If your husband claims to be vehemently opposed to something, it’s probably because he secretly wants it.

2. Starbucks protein plates are NOT sufficient pre-drinking meals.

3. You snake fetishists need to STOP putting snakes in places that require you to take a trip to the sex shop to get an emergency bite kit!

4. WHY are we debating letting people purchase the morning after pill from pharmacists, but we have no problem with people treating poisonous snake bites at a sex shop??

5. A hand pump sprayer and a tub of Folgers is not a sufficient coffee enema. Learn from my mistakes.

Forget This Week’s Tragedies, the University of Maryland’s Delta Gamma Sorority Has Sent an Email That is Clear: STOP BEING A WHINY BITCH

Well I was all set to publish a story about Violet the Screaming Dog, when I came across the most amazing thing I’ve read in a long time, by way of Gawker.com.

The little gem of which I speak is a letter from a University of Maryland Sigma Nu slam pig Delta Gamma sorority sister. Specifically, it’s from one of Delta Gamma’s executive board members. By the way, I had no idea how flimsy the requirements to be an executive board member at a sorority are, but it explains so much about the board members I’ve met in every other organization with which I worked, if this is how we are cultivating them.

0812_2_DI

This girl is is NOT FUCKING AROUND you guys! With all that this country has gone through this week, it is time to address the REAL problem.

STOP ACTING FUCKING WEIRD AND AWKWARD.

Look, sorority life is HARD WORK! It’s not about having fun and meeting new people, it’s about getting guys to like you, DUH!

By the way, if you are wondering what trait your child will come home with by sending them to the University of Maryland – class, folks. They’ll come home with an extra touch of class.

maryland_terrapins-1

Here is the full email from one pissed off executive board member of the University of Maryland Delta Gamma sorority, who clearly has a bright future on her hands:

“If you just opened this like I told you to, tie yourself down to whatever chair you’re sitting in, because this email is going to be a rough fucking ride.

For those of you that have your heads stuck under rocks, which apparently is the majority of this chapter, we have been FUCKING UP in terms of night time events and general social interactions with Sigma Nu. I’ve been getting texts on texts about people LITERALLY being so fucking AWKWARD and so fucking BORING. If you’re reading this right now and saying to yourself “But oh em gee Julia, I’ve been having so much fun with my sisters this week!”, then punch yourself in the face right now so that I don’t have to fucking find you on campus to do it myself.

I do not give a flying fuck, and Sigma Nu does not give a flying fuck, about how much you fucking love to talk to your sisters. You have 361 days out of the fucking year to talk to sisters, and this week is NOT, I fucking repeat NOT ONE OF THEM. This week is about fostering relationships in the greek community, and that’s not fucking possible if you’re going to stand around and talk to each other and not our matchup. Newsflash you stupid cocks: FRATS DON’T LIKE BORING SORORITIES. Oh wait, DOUBLE FUCKING NEWSFLASH: SIGMA NU IS NOT GOING TO WANT TO HANG OUT WITH US IF WE FUCKING SUCK, which by the way in case you’re an idiot and need it spelled out for you, WE FUCKING SUCK SO FAR. This also applies to you little shits that have talked openly about post gaming at a different frat IN FRONT OF SIGMA NU BROTHERS. Are you people fucking retarded? That’s not a rhetorical question, I LITERALLY want you to email me back telling me if you’re mentally slow so I can make sure you don’t go to anymore night time events. If Sigma Nu openly said “Yeah we’re gonna invite Zeta over”, would you be happy? WOULD YOU? No you wouldn’t, so WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO IT TO THEM?? IN FRONT OF THEM?!! First of all, you SHOULDN’T be post gaming at other frats, I don’t give a FUCK if your boyfriend is in it, if your brother is in it, or if your entire family is in that frat. YOU DON’T GO. YOU. DON’T. GO. And you ESPECIALLY do fucking NOT convince other girls to leave with you.

“But Julia!”, you say in a whiny little bitch voice to your computer screen as you read this email, “I’ve been cheering on our teams at all the sports, doesn’t that count for something?” NO YOU STUPID FUCKING ASS HATS, IT FUCKING DOESN’T. DO YOU WANNA KNOW FUCKING WHY?!! IT DOESN’T COUNT BECAUSE YOU’VE BEEN FUCKING UP AT SOBER FUCKING EVENTS TOO. I’ve not only gotten texts about people being fucking WEIRD at sports (for example, being stupid shits and saying stuff like “durr what’s kickball?” is not fucking funny), but I’ve gotten texts about people actually cheering for the opposing team. The opposing. Fucking. Team. ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?!! I don’t give a SHIT about sportsmanship, YOU CHEER FOR OUR GODDAMN TEAM AND NOT THE OTHER ONE, HAVE YOU NEVER BEEN TO A SPORTS GAME? ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND? Or are you just so fucking dense about what it means to make people like you that you think being a good little supporter of the greek community is going to make our matchup happy? Well it’s time someone told you, NO ONE FUCKING LIKES THAT, ESPECIALLY OUR FUCKING MATCHUP. I will fucking cunt punt the next person I hear about doing something like that, and I don’t give a fuck if you SOR me, I WILL FUCKING ASSAULT YOU.

“Ohhh Julia, I’m now crying because your email has made me oh so so sad”. Well good. If this email applies to you in any way, meaning if you are a little asswipe that stands in the corners at night or if you’re a weird shit that does weird shit during the day, this following message is for you:

DO NOT GO TO TONIGHT’S EVENT.

I’m not fucking kidding. Don’t go. Seriously, if you have done ANYTHING I’ve mentioned in this email and have some rare disease where you’re unable to NOT do these things, then you are HORRIBLE, I repeat, HORRIBLE PR FOR THIS CHAPTER. I would rather have 40 girls that are fun, talk to boys, and not fucking awkward than 80 that are fucking faggots. If you are one of the people that have told me “Oh nooo boo hoo I can’t talk to boys I’m too sober”, then I pity you because I don’t know how you got this far in life, and with that in mind don’t fucking show up unless you’re going to stop being a goddamn cock block for our chapter. Seriously. I swear to fucking God if I see anyone being a goddamn boner at tonight’s event, I will tell you to leave even if you’re sober. I’m not even kidding. Try me.

And for those of you who are offended at this email, I would apologize but I really don’t give a fuck. Go fuck yourself.”

The children really are our future, aren’t they?

WINK Wednesday – The Pink Dolly Wine Cocktail

I needed something super pretty for WINK Wednesday. I had to buy Clairol Root Touch-up for grey hair, which is pretty much the low point of my year so far. I don’t know why I associate Clairol root color with old ladies, but I totally do. So between buying this, and still not being sure what “twerking” is, I’m feeling about 60.

Unfortunately, I just started a new job after several months of unemployment, so I’m not quite ready to go back to the $200 dye jobs to which I’ve grown accustomed. But my grey hair does not seem to want to co-operate and still insists on poking it’s gleaming existence into my otherwise satisfactory head of hair. Luckily, I’m not yet at the point where a few months of root grow-out is offensive, but when I am brushing my teeth, I catch little glints of silver in the mirror and, for a split second, I think, “Check me out, my hair is glistening,” and then I’m like, “Sigh….it’s a fucking grey hair.”

And because I wasn’t sure which shade to get because, for once in 20 years, I’m back to my original hair color and it’s been so long since I’ve seen it, I’m totally lost in matching it. So I download the Clairol app which takes me through this whole slew of questions and, as if my self pride was not depleted enough, it asked that I take a picture of my root growth. So I did, outside of Walgreens.

Then when I got to the part that told me what color to get, NOTHING HAPPENED. It was stuck on that damn screen.

Dear Clairol,

I sat outside of a Walgreens, taking pictures of my grey hair and root growth, wearing my Skydance Skydiving t-shirt, because skydiving was the last big risk I’ve taken before buying your product to hopefully match my roots. Then the app did not even work. Get your shit together.

Wiseass Wife

So with pride hurt, and feeling old, there were only two things left to do: crank some Dolly Parton and make the prettiest wine drink that I can think of.

Dolly and wine make everything better.

So I decided to name my drink after her. There is already a Dolly Parton cocktail. Some rum concoction.

So I present to you, the Pink Dolly.

winkpink

Not All Men From Las Vegas Are Douchebags (For Ladies with Little Boobies, Everywhere)

As I mentioned last week, I will be writing a weekly column for Kanoodled.com, where readers are invited to write in with questions they may have about sex, and I will answer them with the all the authority of someone with absolutely no medical/professional background. I invited people on Facebook to write to thewiseasswife at gmail dot com with their questions, and got an anecdote that was so hilarious, I couldn’t not share it.

It’s not a question, so much as a hilarious story from a friend of mine, about meeting her boyfriend, and having tiny boobs. When she sent it to me, I knew it was gold and had to be posted here. Enjoy:

Seven years ago my good friend, Julie, introduced me to my now boyfriend Tom. Having just gotten out of a drama ridden ten year relationship I had no intention of even tapping my big toe into the flames awaiting outside of the frying pan I had just leaped out of. He was incredibly attractive, so I knew that I at least wanted to have sex with him. However, there were only two tangible facts I knew about him thanks to Julie’s boyfriend (man friends don’t really provide the greatest information).

He was born and raised in Las Vegas. All I could picture was the parade of vaginas, albeit bedazzled and well groomed vaginas, that he must have been exposed to. I envisioned a pie chart (pun intended) entitled TOM’S EXPOSURE TO LAS VEGAS VAGINAS BY CATEGORY where the largest slice was relegated to stripper-ginas, the next to cocktail-waitress-ginas and finally the smallest sliver to the wanna-be-stripper-or-cocktail-waitress-girls-from-his-high-school-ginas.

Screen shot 2013-04-16 at 9.33.51 AM

He had only ever dated girls with big-ol’-boobies. To be clear, I think boobies are fabulous but as a grown ass adult who could still fit into a Hannah Montana tween bra, I knew he’d be in for a whole new landscape. Based on my limited research comprised mostly of visits to Las Vegas for bachelorette parties, I knew Las Vegas as not only the land of bedazzled vaginas, but the land of big-ol’-boobies be they fake or God given.

Fast forward a couple of months and many, many rum & Cokes later to one of our very first make out sessions. Oh the kissing and the grinding and the…painfully obvious avoidance of second base. He rubbed my back, my ass and strangely even my stomach. It became so distracting that I started to fixate on the image evolving in my mind. I saw myself as a child’s playground where the tan bark is the imaginary lava. Avoiding the lava is the cardinal rule. DON’T TOUCH THE LAVA! Except in this case my tiny boobs were the lava. Was he thinking in his head, “DON’T TOUCH THE TINY BOOBS!”

I had had enough. Being in my 30’s and having come out of that aforementioned ten year debacle of a relationship, I was far more bold than I had ever been. I already am what friends call “filter challenged”, meaning that the filter between my mind and my mouth rarely function as society would like it to. I broke from the lip lock and blurted out, “Are you afraid of my boobs?”

He visibly shuttered. Seems my question, while poignant, was a tad shocking even for a guy born and raised in sin city. Fortunately, my self esteem was not in danger because of two things:

1) I had gotten over being self conscious about my boobs over a decade ago.

2) I live in a world where if I really wanted boobies of big ol’ proportions, I could go out & buy them.

I really, really wanted my boobies touched, so if this guy wasn’t going to be willing to work through this, then game over.
His response was completely unexpected. I’m not even sure what answer I expected. I suppose, I thought he’d get defensive and things would fall apart and that would be fine because I was perfectly content with dying in a one bedroom apartment where myself and my future pack of ten cats lived.

“I’m afraid to hurt you”, he said, “I mean afraid to hurt them, I guess.” I immediately thought, “Jesus! What the hell does he intend to do to my poor boobs?! Is he going to clean & jerk them?” The room quickly went from sexy hot to “can we please open a window or turn on a fan before I die” kind of hot. Awkward.

I assured him that this was not a legitimate concern, but that I was thrilled with his honesty. That exchange actually set the tone for our entire relationship. Me saying painfully awkward things and him compelled to respond with painful honesty. It has worked for seven years. He has learned, with some instruction and encouragement, how to manage tiny tweenager-sized boobs with great skill and he has yet to hurt me. In this case, a little honesty went a long way. My boobs still thank me.