In the category of "Mommy Blogs": a chronicle of my life in Chicago and wherever it takes me. Stories from my past.

Monday, March 07, 2005


Dear Will,
Why, oh why, do you have to touch me with your feet? Don't you know that your feet touch the floor? Don't you know that we have a dog, and that that dog rubs her anus on the floor when she licks herself? Don't you know that when your feet are not touching the floor, they are bound in socks and hiking boots, possibly producing copious quantities of sweat... sweat that sticks to the dog hair that's been shed on the floor? I love you so much. I love every part of you. I even love your two alabaster white feet. But that doesn't mean you have to touch me with them.
Now you think it's funny and that means, my friend, my companion, my past and future - that means you are e v i l. Next time you bring those things near me, I will cut you.
Love, Me



At 10:09 AM, Blogger Susie said...

Sorry about the double commenting before; I didn't think my comment "took" at all, but when you popped over to my place and mentioned Bozeman, I knew it did. Now this post today. You would not believe how often this topic is an issue in marriage counseling. Wives are all the time complaining about husbands with the feet. Someone should do some research. My town is a suburb of the place Emmylous sang about the night we saw her in Bozeman :)


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