And in other news: I dream about sex

(Let me make this perfectly clear that I am not joking when I give the following warning)
FAMILY, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU. Read if you must, but I'll deny everything if you ever bring it up.

Ok, so here's the thing. I'm a housewife, right?? I've been a housewife/SAHM/homemaker/whatever for almost two years. I don't go out. I rarely see my friends. I rarely want to see my friends. I rarely drink. I rarely get dressed up. I rarely meet new people. I rarely feel beautiful - and I mean, really beautiful like, "Damn, girl. You are so fucking sexy I can't keep my hands off of you"-beautiful. I rarely feel worthy of anyone saying that to me even when they do (well, when he does, not "they" - oh, if only!). I rarely feel interesting to anyone. I rarely feel like a prize.

And when I say "rarely," I really mean "never."

Because, you see, being a housewife/SAHM/homemaker/whatever means that I am home-bound. Not just because my office is my house, but because my priorities have changed. I'm married, I have a son, I have a sense of self and purpose outside of trolling Austin for hot guys and a good buzz (or a hot buzz and good guys). I can't wear stilettos to clean the house or a revealing top to hang with my mom. I can't flirt with the most titillating person at the table because I can't: I'm married. And happily married.

And, yet, I am chafing under this self-imposed isolation of self and soul.

I am becoming restless and antsy. I am becoming THAT housewife. The one who pours over her romance novels like they're more than just smut in paperback, as if they might be real...somewhere. The one who can barely stand the raw hotness between a pale ass, teenaged, vampire and his just as pale assed teenage girl obsession. The one who is living in hot, sexy dreams with men she's known (and not known - hey, Bill, drop me a line) and memories of my hedonistic past like Al Bundy and his high school football days.

I have such ardent dreams I wake up feeling guilty. GUILTY! I probably make Anthony an extra egg or give him my last piece of bacon on those mornings. I mean, does he even know the things I'm doing in my dreams to other men?? Seriously. Anne Rice has got nothing on me - well, ok, she's got a lot on me with her sexy-time books, but you get my drift. My dreams are very adult, very explicit, and very nice.

And I'm wondering if all my recent malaise isn't somehow tied up with this stagnant perfume I'm wearing. What do I expect to have happen if what I do each day is summed up by 1300 square feet, lots of cooking, lots of cleaning, and little, to no interaction with real live adults?? I am utterly fulfilled and beyond happy growing my little person - absolutely not one regret there, truly - but I am regretting this hole I've dug for myself.

In the beginning of all of this I felt safer at home with Hollis and Anthony because I didn't have to worry about getting hurt by people or let down. I didn't have to worry about exerting my social muscles. I hung out here, invited people over, cooked for them, imbibed with them. But even that has trickled to an almost full stop. Most of my very favorite people in the entire world have joined the Austin Diaspora, but I'm still here, alone, and with a husband who's gone from the house for roughly 9-10 hours of a 15 hour wakeful day.

Add to this the fact that Anthony and I don't enjoy doing the same things. He doesn't like spending money out. He doesn't talk to strangers and he really doesn't like to go out on the town. He's a jeans and pub kind of guy. The fellow you're comfortable and easy with and who kisses you sweetly and passionately in the car away from watchful eyes.

I absolutely love this about him; I love our differences, the tension it brings and the compliment, but what am I supposed to do to get that old kick back in my life?? I can't go bar hopping to chat people up and be admired for my desirability (something I used to thrive on). And when I try for it with him our date nights are usually anxiety laden because of money issues and coming home to Hollis at a reasonable hour and reasonably sober. And I'm asleep in my coffee.

Am I supposed to exorcise myself of wanting to be wanted by others? to feel that rush and adrenalin of talking to new people? to use hours' worth of witty banter to woo someone to my side?

How do I reconcile all of this?

Gone, utterly, are the days of passion and fun and force and excitement. My life is predictable. Safe. Lovely. Full of strong, warm hugs. It's butterflies and sunbeams and nicely made beds and zerbert kisses. - And oh, God, I feel so guilty for even feeling this way when I can still feel Hollis' sweet little mouth on the tender skin of my arm, see the twinkle in his eye and sense the love emanating from his warm, pulsing body. It's as if I'm saying he's not enough, even though that's the last thing on earth I'm saying.

I just want to know one thing: How do I possibly add to my beautiful world all that raucous, powerful, cat-scratch, tobacco-laden energy from my past without actually sacrificing the present and future? How??

Am I alone in this??

Please, quick, someone tell me before my head fucking explodes and Anthony has to put me back together again...

Only 5 days, 8 hours, 59 minutes and 12 seconds until I get to see my honey and he can make all of this go away and assure me I'm not fucking bat-shit crazy and that I really and truly am everything I remember.