I Love How My Woman Looks

I love how my woman looks, kind of, not really, well...not at all.

My woman to others is no 10. Maybe, on a good day, in low lighting, she is a 3 or a 4, and from a distance...of about ¼ mile, she is a 5 but she is an 11 to me. Pardon me for a moment.

"Honey, please put on some makeup, you are scaring the dog, again. Okay, Buster, okay, it's only Julie. C'mon, Buster, get out from under the bed and I'll give you a cookie."

My woman is no babe, siren, hottie, Hooter girl, Playboy Bunny, runway model, dream girl, romantic vision, one-in-a-million or one-of-a-kind but, to me, she is someone special. And after a day of binge drinking, when I close my eyes, rub them, open them just a crack while continually blinking, and view her through blood shot, blurred vision, she is a radiant beauty, almost, kind of, not really, but I love her.

My woman does not have perfect skin, shiny, straight black hair like Cher, short red hair like Kirsten Dunst or long, curly, blonde hair like Christina Aguilera's new look. Yet, to me, with her mousey brown, straggling, thin hair, she is stunningly gorgeous. Sorry, excuse me for a second.

"Honey, what happened to your hair? Are you having a bad hair day? Did you sleep on it? You should try brushing it. It's sticking to your head as if there is maple syrup in it. Here's some money. Make an appointment at the hairdresser. Oh, you just came from the beauty parlor. No, uhm, it looks good.

Note to self, go down to beauty parlor tomorrow and request a refund.

My woman does not have big, beautiful eyes like Natalie Portman or Twiggy, but with her beady little eyes she is still my brown-eyed girl.

"Doll, instead of wearing those outdated, coke-bottle glasses, maybe you should try contacts. I know; you cannot touch your eyes. Okay, never mind."

Note to self, get information on laser vision surgery. Where was I? Oh, yeah...

My woman has perfect, perky, little A cup breasts with tiny nipples. She does not have shapely B cup breasts like Jennifer Aniston or Carmen Diaz, full round C cup tits like Halle Berry or Angelina Jolie or D or double D cup breasts with eraser type nipples that make a noise when they pop out of your mouth like Pamela Anderson and Dolly Parton. Still, so what if she does not have the kind of tits that men lust over in Playboy and Penthouse magazines, to me, tits are tits and I love her tits just the same. Sorry, again.

"Hey, Baby, you should try wearing a Wonder bra. I heard they do wonders for your breasts by squishing them together, lifting them up, and giving you a bit of cleavage. Oh, you are wearing a Wonder bra already. Yeah, of course, I thought you were wearing one. Your tits look huge, almost, not really."

Not to self, price out silicone implants.

My woman has a flat ass but I love grabbing her ass. She does not have a proud, round, firm ass like Jennifer Lopez or an outrageous bubble ass like Mary J. Blige. Still, to me, asses are asses, everyone has one or is one, and I love her ass just the same. I'll be right back.

"Sweetie, maybe you should buy your pants in the men's section. Those women's pants make your ass look...do you remember what all the deflated balloons looked like at your 30th birthday party? Yeah, like that."

Note to self, price ass implants along with the breast implants.

My woman has short, stubby, chubby legs that are...well, short, stubby, and chubby. She does not have long, shapely, smooth legs, the kind of legs that makes you want to take your time caressing, kissing, and licking while working your way up to her sweet honey pot, but I lust over her legs just the same. Sorry, yet, again.

"Doll, that black, below the knee skirt really does not look good with those white Bobby socks. They make your legs look so...white. Maybe, you should wear pants...my pants."

My woman is not a movie star, singer, dancer, or television personality, she is a homemaker, but I am as proud of her if she was a celebrity, one who is in the lime light walking down the red carpet with cameras flashing and people cheering. Yeah, I would take my dull homemaking wife to that kind of intoxicatingly beautiful woman and fast and exciting lifestyle any day...I think.

"Honey? Is my nose getting longer? Why do I suddenly feel like Pinocchio?"

My woman is not rich. She does not have money to burn like Oprah Winfrey, nor does she have an inheritance like Paris Hilton or a trust fund like Nicole Richie. She is middle class working poor like me and money is not important to me.

"Cupcake, Wal-Mart is having a big sale and afterwards we can stop at Mickey D's for burgers and fries."

My woman is not talented, a brain, a genius, a protégé or wicked smart, but she is as smart as she needs be to make me happy.

"What's that, Hon? No, chicken of the sea is not chicken but tuna fish."

My woman is no Suzy Homemaker, Betty Crocker, Julia Child, Rachael Ray, Mrs. Fields, or Martha Stewart, but she makes a mean microwave meal.

"Sweetie, I told you that you cannot put tin foil in the microwave. Still, the meatloaf looks okay. Oh, it's chicken? Then, I'd throw this out. It doesn't look too good. And no Sweetie, you cannot dry Buster in the microwave after his bath."

My woman is no Dear Abby, Mrs. Manners, or Emily Post, but I can go to her with any problem and get straight from the heart good advice.

"So, tell me again why you think I should trade my F150 for a Mini Cooper?"

My woman is no Florence Nightingale, Mother Theresa, or Hot lips Houlahan, but she takes good care of me when I am sick.

"My Love, are you sure it is feed a fever and starve a cold and not the other way around? 'Cause I only have a cold and I am really hungry."

My woman is not a stand up comic like Rosanne Barr, Ellen DeGeneris or Joan Rivers, but she sure makes me laugh.

"Pudding Pie, what is this $1,000 donation charged on my credit card to Brother Joseph and his Church-At-Home? No, that is not funny, Honey, that his name is the same as your brother Joseph's name and which is why you donated the money."

My woman is not Mrs. Brady of the Brady Bunch, Mrs. Cleaver of Leave It To Beaver or Harriett Nelson of Ozzie and Nelson, but she is a good mother to our children.

"Sweetie, we cannot leave the kids home alone. Yes, I know we are only going away for the weekend but they are only 3, 5, and 7-years old."

My woman is not someone the entire country looks to for answers like Oprah Winfrey, Katie Coric or Hillary Clinton, but she is someone who I look to for answers when I have questions.

"So, tell me again why I should trade my F150 for a Mini Cooper?"

My woman cannot mesmerize an audience like Celine Dion, Janet Jackson or Faith Hill, but she mesmerizes me.

"Sweetie, you're flat ass is blocking the television, again; I can't see the commercials. Can you move over just a wee bit?"

My woman is not fickle like Zsa Zsa Gabor, Elizabeth Taylor or Debbie Reynolds but she is faithful in our marriage and loyal to me.

"So, where were you last night? Renaldo was giving you golf lessons at midnight? But it's February."

My woman is not fancy like Mariah Carey, JLo or Carmen Elektra, but she is fancy to me.

"I'm sorry Sweetie but you look like a Ring Ding in that silver sequined dress."

Yes, I was very much in love with my wife but now that I am with Tiffany, my long, legged, porn-star stripper with her double D cup tits, long blonde, curly hair, big blue eyes, and who just graduated Magna-Cum-Laude, earning her doctorate in Astro-Physics and is a celebrity of sorts after publishing her new book, Are We Alone In The Universe?, and with the movie coming out next month, life is good.