Good morning to all.  It is a glorious Monday morning in Philadelphia.  I rolled the windows down in my 2000 GMC Jimmy (it is a two door with no four wheel drive, what a piece of crap) and let the wind blow through my graying hair.  It was stupendous. 

Who am I kidding, Monday’s freaking blow.  The air in Philadelphia smells like a mixture of toxic gas, exhaust and body odor.  The only reason I had the car window’s down is if I use the air conditioner in the Jimmy I can only drive 28 miles an hour without the car shaking uncontrollably and having to stop for gasoline ever four miles. 

This is the last time Wifesense gets to pick out a car on her own.  It is a wonder the American Car companies are doing so poorly. 

Wifesense and I went out to a romantic dinner on Saturday night.  The food was awesome and a night out without the kids was a nice little perk. 

We wined and dined and got home around midnight.  We relieved the babysitter (my awesome Mother-in-Law) and we got ready for bed. 

I don’t want to make this sound sensual or romantic; I am pretty incapable of both.  We were both exhausted and nothing was going to happen.  That is how we wound up with two kids in the first place and we want to avoid baby number threes for at least 10 years. 

So we lay down in bed and kissed good night.  I just had surgery on my jaw and my bottom lip down to my chin is completely numb, so Wifesense has to squeeze my cheeks together to get them to form pursed lips.  We crack up laughing every time.

Then we got to talking.  We couldn’t figure out the last time we actually Frenched kissed.  We don’t go too crazy in that department.  We kiss, but we don’t jam our tongues into each other’s mouths on a regular basis. 

I have to admit, I have to concentrate fully on un-hooking a bra, let alone thinking about what to do with my tongue, so I prefer to limit how much I have to do in this area. 

French kissing just seems so freaking juvenile.  I am not saying I am mature by any stretch but I am not receiving or giving out hickies either and French kissing is not too far behind.

Who thought of French kissing?  Wouldn’t it be funny if the person wasn’t even French?  Is there a sign on the town of the creator of the French kiss?  Blue Balls, PA home of Jacques Guyon, the inventor of the French kiss. 

When I think of French kissing I think of the PDA version.  The public display of affection version that my boy Bunndini has currently re-invented. 

I picture the high school kids walking back from the kegger and stopping to hook up as they lean up against a parked car on a major street or the teenagers dry humping on their parents couch and jamming their tongues down the other person’s throat. 

They prepare for the kiss by turning their baseball hats around and spraying their mouths with Binaca Breath Spray. 

“Oh, I didn’t remember having broccoli for dinner.  Oh wait YOU had broccoli.  Is this your gum too?”

I don’t picture the intimate French kissing.   Wifesense and I discussed this in length and tried doing it.  It didn’t feel right, so we thought that in order to perfect it, we both had to be standing up and listening to Every Rose Has It’s Thorn and consuming 48 beers to adequately catch the moment.

When do couples stop seriously French kissing (and I mean seriously French kissing until your tongue, jaw, lips, teeth and cheeks hurt)?  Are we the only ones in this department?  I don’t miss it, but I don’t want to be left out either.   

If we are the only ones not doing it, I may sneak one in on Wifesense when I get home tonight.  While she is talking on the phone with her cousin Mary, I am going to jam my tongue in her freaking mouth!     

(I wonder if there is a Polish Kiss?  It is probably when a Polish person leans in for a kiss and missing the intended person’s mouth completely as they slobber all over their forehead, in the dark.  ZING!)