You’re My Aphrodite

Alex and I have decided to save on our water bill by always showering together, so when it was once sexy to shower together, it has turned into more of “HAHA! BOOBS!” and we usually just poke each other’s belly fat while having philosophical conversations never lasting longer than five minutes.

Where Romance Goes To Die

Where Romance Goes To Die

The other day, I must have looked less ragged than normal and Alex smiles at me, kissing my forehead and whispers, “You’re my Aphrodite.”

I’m flattered, and trying to remember my Greek mythology, and trying to not get in trouble for not saying something romantic back, I quickly respond with, “You’re my Hephaestus.”

Dead Sexy for a Troll

Dead Sexy for a Troll

He pushed me away.  “Seriously?  You had a plethora of Greek gods to choose from, and you choose the stupidest god there is?  The one god that everyone on Olympus hates and is always treated horribly unfairly?  Also, the ugliest god on Olympus?  You think I’m ugly?!”

Of course this backfired on me horribly.  We are just no good at this romance crap 

“He was married to Aphrodite!” I protest.

“Yeah, and she cheated on him nonstop with every other fucking god on Olympus!”

“Fine, you’re my Apollo,” I state, thinking that makes it better.  Of course it doesn’t.

“Oh yes, because I’m such a tan, beautiful athlete with a wild temper.  Try again.”

I’m getting frustrated.  “Fine, you’re my Zeus.”

Alex laughs.  “Then you’re my whore of a wife Hera who also happens to be my sister.”

“It’s funny because your sister and I kind of look alike,” I retort, to which he begins to bang his head on the wall of the shower.

“Why do I even try to be romantic anymore?” he asks, then showing himself out of the shower.

And that, my friends, is how I have artfully killed the mood between Alex and I without even trying.

Have you ever had an instance where you’re trying to be sweet back to your significant other and it just totally backfires?  Have you ever called someone a sweet pet name and it was horribly insulting?  Let me know!

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Don’t Wear Sweatpants on Sundays

So this last Sunday, in preparation for the Super Bowl Commercials, Alex realized we were out of beer.  Football commercials just aren’t the same without beer, so I volunteered to go to the store.

Since I never leave my house, I have a very comfy pair of sweat pants that are light gray, bleach stained, and show any type of wetness on them.  Strike one.

I also hadn’t showered yet this day because if I was going to be eating queso dip and drinking beer all night, I figured I didn’t need to shower quite yet.  Strike two.

And I get into my car, where I had left the windows open and it rained, so I sat down on a very, VERY wet seat.  Strike three.

I get to the gas station and everyone is actively avoiding me.  I know I probably don’t smell that pretty, I’m wearing sweatpants where the rear end was wet, and I looked like total crap because I hadn’t brushed my crazy hair yet and I was dressed like a hobo.

Seriously I had no idea what was going on.  Everyone in the store was actively avoiding me.  I get to the counter and the guy there, who is usually really friendly, couldn’t ring me up fast enough, then basically shoved me out the door.

I understand that it’s a bad idea to leave your house wearing anything but your Sunday’s best on a Sunday, but I didn’t think I’d be totally shunned.

So when I get home, I tell the story to Alex.  He hugs me, then pushes me away. 

“Are you wearing deodorant?”

I shake my head.  “No, I forgot to put some on this morning.”

“I hate to tell you love, but you smell awful.”

My eyes widen.  “Wait a minute… does my butt look wet to you?”

I turn around, and he starts laughing.  “Did you sit down in a puddle of water?”

I start laughing too, of course.

I’m pretty sure that everyone at the gas station thought I had wet my pants and was buying beer. 

This is why I don’t leave my house.