Yes, these very words were uttered to me this morning by my adoring husband.  In previous pithy posts I have divulged bits of the nightmare that is my husband's life since he married me.  While he is a good and kind man, were it not for his marriage to me, he would still be living in the same hovel buried four feet deep in junk mail and dog hair that I found him in eight years ago.  Life with me has had it's ups and downs, but for the most part he's come out even, if not a bit ahead.

In our house I don't really make him do much in the way of chores. Except for the obvious man work that is the obligation of his gender and his status as a kept man.  He is required to do the dogs' bidding and to indulge their every whim, as well as to pick up their shit in the yard.  He is in charge of killing or removing from my sight all rodents, vermin, arachnids, and reptiles.  Once a week he takes the garbage bins from the side of the house out to the street for collection. For the rest, I have a maid. (You didn't actually think I did any of the housework did you? Pfffft!) In exchange for his efforts Dave is rewarded with frozen pizzas, pasta with jarred sauce, and a never ending supply of chips, cookies, and Twinkies. I spare no expense, as I am also the household finance manager, in my quest to ruin his health.

In the early days of our relationship I also rewarded Dave for good deeds done with sexual favors.  Blow jobs during Dallas Cowboy's home games, quickies before I left for work, and as a rule we rang in most holidays with a good dose of lube and a hand job.  However, in recent months an unexpected bladder problem has sidelined our sex life and my libido, and Dave is getting nothing for his efforts or his patience.

Long story short, when I was younger I had a condition that required having my urethra stretched every 3 months for about nine years.  If you've ever had this done you know how much it sucks.  If you haven't, count your blessings.  Even with the sedatives that my mother would give me before we left for the appointment, I had to be strapped down to the bed like a mental patient and to endure a procedure that I'm sure took 5 minutes but in my mind lasted for days.   To this day I get chills up my spine when I think of those visits, and I want to vomit any time my mother mentions the doctor's name.

As a result of the medieval tactics employed by my urologist back in the day, it appears I have developed scar tissue over the years that periodically flares up and fucks with my life.  When I was with my last long-term boyfriend, I experienced regular bladder infections that had me making late night trips to the ER on a regular basis.  In hindsight I think that the infections were my body's way of telling me that my beau and I were essentially incompatible.  Something that I should have recognized in the beginning and not after 7 years.

My poor husband was introduced to my bladder early on in our relationship.  Although I've not had infections since I met him, I have had a host of other issues.  We had been dating a month when I announced to him that I would be getting my tubes cauterized.  An announcement he took well and was supportive about, but it was his ability to survive the aftermath of the side effects that assured me he really was the nicest guy you'll ever meet.  In the days following the procedure, the swelling that resulted from it did something to piss off my bladder, and I suddenly found myself unable to pee.  Let me tell ya, this is not a happy thing.  By the time I made my way to the urologist's office, a new one not the same sadist I saw as a child, I was in hysterics.  At 35 years old I was reduced to a terrified 3 year old just by walking into his office.  I am pretty sure it was the fact that I was upsetting the other patients in the waiting room (all of them geriatric) with my wailing and not the fact that I was escorted by my cousin Daniela dressed as a transgendered pirate for Halloween that got us ushered into a private room on that first visit.

Time and medication sorted out the episode and life went on as normal... well as normal as it gets around here.  That was until shortly before I left for Jamaica.  My bladder decided, for reasons known only to it, to start acting up again.  More nerve wracking trips to the doctor, more pill cocktails to try and get things in working order.  Only things aren't yet back in working order and I'm terrified that this time is the beginning of a lifetime of issues and meds that have all kinds of fun side effects.  Currently I have dry skin, a flaking scalp, pee varying shades of blue and green, fall asleep at the drop of a hat, and my colon is locked down tight.  My glamour and allure have gone on vacation and poor Dave sits watching football on TV trying not to know that I'm lying on the cold tile floor of the bathroom giving myself an enema and reading Martha Stewart Living while it takes effect.

Sex is completely out of the question.  The mere idea of it makes me shudder.  Instead of feeling good I spend the entire time wondering if it's going to exacerbate the situation and longing for the days when sex was fun and bad sex was at least a good time to think about what to buy at the market.  The current version of that list includes a lot of lube and some how-to manuals to spice up the average hand job 'cause that's all the poor bastard is gonna get.

No, you can't have money for a hooker honey.  Not yet, at least.