Wednesday, March 25, 2009

When Sex is Spelled C-A-T

A cautionary tale....
March always inspires me to do a bit of spring cleaning. So earlier today, I decided to tackle the basement playroom. Just as I was about to throw a number of scattered magnetic letters into the donation pile for my son’s pre-school, a Christmas flashback quickly made me think again…

Perhaps it was the yuletide spirit, or just the thrill of getting caught wrapping the kids’ gifts, but this past Christmas Eve, my husband and I got a little busy tying other things up in bows. It was just after midnight and I had been moving bags of toys from the attic to the basement to be sorted, tagged and wrapped. I admit, it’s not the most clever, streamlined or efficient of processes, but as many things in our household go, it was a last minute cluster fuck.

Usually, I am on my own, toiling away wrapping gifts and stocking stuffers for the three children, plus my husband...while he would fall asleep on the couch amid an “A Christmas Story” marathon. This year, however, it was different. Maybe he was procrastinating wrapping the one box he usually puts all of my gifts in, the ones that don’t get wrapped for free at the local bookstore, or perhaps something in him stirred watching Will Ferrell in tights in “Elf” for the umpteenth time…whatever it was, I wasn’t going to question it. He decided to join me and it was much needed help – light at the end of the tunnel and I thought I’d finally go to bed on Christmas Eve long before the kids got up.

He looked boyishly handsome as he waded into the piles of gifts, but his countenance quickly grew grim almost stern. I could tell he was trying to estimate the amount of damage done on the credit card. But I had a plan for times such as this. Oh yes, I knew what I was doing - a playful tousle of the hair, a shy smile and passing squeeze of the hand, a quick shoulder rub – I was activating launch codes. Alpha! Tango! Rudolph! Foxtrot! Tired as I was, I stealth-fully sent out the message, either get a little nookie now or kill the mood until Easter with an argument over spending.

Hugging went to kissing to let’s just say "gettin’ it on" on the coffee table, which just hours before the kids had been making cookies for Santa out of play-doh. “Who’s your Santa?”my husband devilishly whispered as pushed my right leg up higher. “Ouch,” I thought, but it was a moment and I figured I’d go with it even if it wasn’t feeling quite right. “Who’s your Santa?” he asked again, pushing my leg higher. “Aghh, ride me, ride me like a reindeer,” I cried as a piercing, sharp pain shot up through my lower back. (Admittedly, now I cringe at this lame attempt at seasonal dirty the moment or not, "ride me like a reindeer," what was I thinking??? And ok, it's not quite the same as screaming "Oh Richie, fuck me like a cop, not a lawyer," like the divorce attorney instructed Russell Crowe's character in "American Gangster," please note that at the time I wasn't trying for bonus style points...) In the end, our holiday hijinx had been fun and fulfilling, but I was really hurting.

Afterward, as we laid there amid the strewn wrapping and packages, my husband looked at me and asked “Are you okay?”

“Yes," I said, "but, I think both you and the table did a number on my back.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” he said then burst into hysterical laughter as I tried to get up. All he could do was point at my ass and giggle, “cat!”

"What the hell?" I thought as I stood up and twisted around to try to look at the right side of my ass….Then I saw the source of my pain. Three large magnetic letters were embedded in my backside, neatly spelling out “C-A-T.” (By the way, for those wondering, the letters are NOT included in the Intimate Surprises intro package at this time...) And when I gingerly picked them off, my husband howled again at the sight of what looked like a remedial tattoo and said, "At least the letters didn’t spell POOP!"

Moral of the story: Definitely think twice before getting busy in the playroom….and if you do, be careful not to donate anything that may or may not have been stuck to your ass …ho.ho.ho.

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