1. How old were you when you lost your virginity? Where were you?

I was 16, almost 17. I remember who - but honestly I can't remember anything else about it. Must not have been that good!

2. How often do you have sex a month: less than 5x, more than 5, more than 10?

10-15 is the average. After nearly 20 years of marriage, we still got it!

3. What are 3 things you always do if you know you are going to get lucky?

Lock the bedroom door (kids don't always knock! We found that out the hard way)

For starters, let me tell you that my husband is not a blog reader, so I don't have to worry about him reading this, or any other blog for that matter. So I had no problems telling him that my "assignment" for this week was to write about a time that I tormented someone. The conversation went something like this:

I find that the night is a good time to get even for any wrongs that happened during the day. My husband is a very deep sleeper. Also a sleep talker.

When he is feeling particularly full of piss and vinegar during the day - I just remind myself that he has to sleep.

There are some things I do that he knows about because I tell him. You can give him a jab, ask him where he’s at and he’ll describe his whole dream to you or have a crazy conversation. These things I do when I can’t sleep and want company. Not-lucid company is better than no company at all in my book.

But then...then there are the nights that I feel mean.

It really tickles my funnybone to flick the overhead light on and then off to see him flinch awake. Or wait until his breathing is good and deep and lean over and give him a sudden shake while telling him that he just said something to wake me up and then ask him what his problem is.

My favorite thing to do is give a short shrill scream while I’m being completely still in the bed. I can feel him sit up suddenly and he usually makes some sort of surprised kind of sound. Then he looks around, wonders aloud about what the hell is going on and goes back to sleep.

Do you know how hard it is to not shake the bed with your giggles? Very hard.

Here’s the simple truth, when I go no one is going to stand around saying, “she had the patience of a saint.” Unless it’s in regards to my husband and then yes, there is no other way he could still be breathing after this many years. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that I’m using up what little patience God gave me on my husband. It's a good thing children are so resilient.

My husband has been down with a cold for several days. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been sympathetic. But, I have three kids I can only spare so much nurturing and boo-boo kissing for a grown man. He’s quite the trooper too. He pretty much has to be on his death bed before he will call in sick. His motto is, “why waste a sick day being sick?”

I’ll tell you why… because he comes home grumpy as hell and his head is so stuffed up he can’t hear and no one can understand him which is doing basically nothing for communication around here. It would do us all good to have him take one day to sleep this thing off than to keep soldiering on, aggravating the hell out of it AND us in the process.

In short I’m starting to make sense of what an older couple half-heartedly spatted over in my kitchen a couple of weeks ago. It was in regards to a news story, in a fit of rage during a romantic squabble a woman managed to get stuck in a chimney and die. It was days before they found her. The husband half of this older couple stood in my kitchen looking at his wife with a gleam in his eyes that I suspect only comes from having been married over fifty years and said, “Sounded like a nice way to go to me. All by yourself, no one bugging you.”

Give me a chimney and a bottle of rum, please.

Friday my genius husband and I had an errand to run. Long story (very) short, I tripped and my wrist came down on the top of a chain link fence. I had managed to twist my ankle and impale my wrist. The fact that I had to pull my wrist off the fence didn’t strike me until a few seconds later when I noticed the hole and the faintest hint of a blue vein pulsing at the bottom. In a few short seconds about 8 million fears flew through my mind things like, “infection, stitches, tetanus, when was my last tetanus shot? Ouch this really hurts, I hope that isn’t broken, wait a second… this is how people usually attempt to kill themselves, is that my pulse I’m seeing there?”

Of course, that made my heart race which naturally increased my circulation and the next thing I know deep, dark almost black red blood is pouring out of the hold in my wrist. A few moments later I was sitting in the car looking up “puncture wounds” on my blackberry and attempting to locate paper towels or some semblance of a first aid kit only to recall that I had asked my son to clean out the car and apparently he took me literally for once. I made do with napkins from Sonic and anti-bacterial waterless hand cleanser.

Yes, it stung.

I came home and several hours later after a few too many beers I started sneezing; impalement and a cold all in the same day. I texted Celeste who quickly advised me that bad things happen in 3’s and thus I should create the third bad thing inevitably hurtling toward me at a pace only amusing to the Universe itself. Celeste thought I should break a dish, preferably over my husband’s head. I looked at the snuffling lump of a husband lying on the end of the bed watching television and briefly considered Celeste’s plan. Then he made the mistake of grumbling something grumpy at me and it occurred to me that a dish was not going to cut it.

Besides, who could say that the cold wasn’t my “3rd” bad thing after my husband and youngest child being sick all week AND my impalement on a chain link fence?

I noticed the straight pin carefully tucked into the weaving of a wicker box on my nightstand and giggled. If something else was headed my way I was bound and determined to go down laughing my ass off.

As soon as Prince Charming started snoring I jabbed him with the pin in the leg, I carefully kept my blackberry in my hand so I would look completely engrossed in what I was doing and could then convince him he was having a bad dream. He jumped, mumbled and started snoring again.

Knowing that confession is good for the soul, I texted Celeste giving her a detailed account while doing everything I could to stifle my maniacal giggles. A minute later and I gave him another poke. This time he jumped and said, “I see you smiling over there, pinchin’ bitch!”

I widened my eyes and said, “Honey! Are you okay?”

To which he replied in a high pitched tone, obviously mocking me, “Honey! Are you okay?” Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.

*poke* *snicker*

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Only the last time he was more awake. “Don’t poke the bear!” He said groggily and then jumped up and proceeded to chase me back and forth across the bed. It looked like something out of a Doris Day and James Garner movie as I jumped from one side to the other narrowly avoiding him and giggling until tears blurred my eyes. Eventually he gave up and made his way to the bathroom.

That’s when I noticed it, a spot of fresh blood on the bed. In my defense, my husband has always been a “bleeder” any scratch or nick has him bleeding more than the average person. That didn’t stop me from feeling really bad though. Fortunately, I was able to convince him that he must have scratched himself.

That is what you call turning lemons into lemonade.