So today’s post is going to be a little change of pace. We have been fortunate enough to be asked to join in on Marian ofjust keep swimming’s Swimming Telephone blogger telephone game.
The basic idea is that Marian started a story and then handed it off to another blogger who in turn added some to the story and then handed it off to another blogger, etc. etc. It’s not only our turn now, but we are also the last so it’s up to us to wrap this story up. Here’s who has participated so far: Ninja Mom, There’s No Time For Pants!, Hollow Tree Ventures, Honest Mom, Underachiever’s Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess, Bad Parenting Moments, and You Know It Happens At Your House Too.
Christian: We are going to totally Hemingway the hell out of this story. It’s finally our chance to be real writers and let our creativity soar! You brought a lot of LSD, right Pat?
Pat: No. I thought you were bringing a lot of LSD. I brought bourbon.
Christian: What? No you were in charge of bringing a lot of LSD. Damnit. Oh well, bourbon it is.
To get you caught up on the story, here’s what’s happened so far: Our heroine is a mother of some rather rambunctious kids and is having a terrible morning. First her youngest took a trike stroll on his own out into the middle of the street, then her middle child got a four-letter-word-sharpie tattoo by his big sister who in turn received a reverse mohawk haircut from the newly tattooed son. And to boot, her mother-in-law just arrived and did we mention that school begins the very next day.
Then we discover that our heroine had originally started out that morning discovering she was pregnant and she is the only one that knows! Dun dun dunnnn. She threw the pregnancy test down the toilet which later resulted in a toilet overflowing mess which is a perfect metaphor for her morning.
But before we begin our installment you may have noticed that the story is being told from the point of view of a women and that we are the only males contributing to this story.
So Pat, remember...we’re trying to tell this story from a woman’s point of view.
Pat: Right. Got it.
Christian: Hopefully we’ll make all the amazing ladies who have handed their story off to us proud.
Pat: Right. Women. Ladies. Got it. Our installment starts at “I’m Here to Bed Sex You My Lady!”
Christian: Correct. Right after the last installment by Tara of You Know It Happens At Your House Too which begins below at “You Call THAT a Haircut?”.
You Call THAT a Haircut?
Since the plumber was unavailable, I set out to solve this problem on my own. Shop-vac, check. Industrial size trash bag for the Depends (Did you know how much liquid those things can hold? Holy crap.), check. I get the bathroom all cleaned up, suck that damn stick out of the pot, and get myself ready to go out into the real world. No more wedgie underwear, no more peek-a-boo PJ's.
I convince the mother-in-law to put down the wine bottle long enough to supervise the boys while I run Vidal Sassoon to the corner Snip and Clip. At this point it doesn't really matter what it looks like, I would just like for it to all be similar in length. I get her settled in the chair and suddenly am fighting the urge to keep down my breakfast. Sweet cheeses, oh Gawd I said cheese. I sprint for the bathroom only to find the door locked. Shit. This breakfast is about to be revisited and there is no way in hell I am dropping this on the floor. I frantically look for a trash can, any type of open topped receptacle. I'm running out of time. I can’t hold back any longer, if only I had realized that my neighbor was in that basin getting her hair washed. Guess that will teach her to gawk at my jammies.
Once I profusely apologize to little Miss Lookie Lou, I decide I should check on the girl. WHAT IN THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE????? I find myself shrieking at the "stylist". YOU DO KNOW THAT THIS IS A GIRL, RIGHT?? Oh, sorry ma'am, I was mistaken. MISTAKEN? SHIT! MY DAUGHTER HAS NO HAIR! YOU SHAVED HER BALD!!!!
I rip the poor girl out of the chair, refuse to pay for the butchering, apologize one more time to the neighbor for breakfast revisited, and reserve myself to the fact that this day has gone to shit in a hand basket at an alarming speed. Speaking of speed, I suppose I should learn to watch mine as in my fit of rage I cranked up Guns 'N Roses and found myself paying no attention to my speedometer. Luckily, a very kind police officer pulled me over and awarded me a fast driving award in recognition of my ability to drive 20 miles per hour over the speed limit. *Note to self, police officers do not take kindly to any references about bacon, donuts, or mentions of firearms in glove compartments.*
After a long conversation with this kind officer in the back of his squad car explaining how craptastic my day had been, he gave me a Kleenex for my tears and said that if I still needed a plumber, he would be happy to come by when he was done saving the city from crazy mama drama.
I make it home, and walk in the front door only to find the mother-in-law, an empty bottle of wine, and my boys with a couple empty rolls of duck tape.
I’m Here To Bed Sex You My Lady
“Oh my god! What have you done with the ducks?!?”
I stared at my boys for an answer. “It’s fine, mom. They’re fine. We just ran out of duck tape. Relax.”
“It’s fine, dear,” he said. It was then that I heard him, in that voice that always calms and reassures me.
“What? I thought you were at work...”
“Well, sometimes I know when I’m needed. Listen...mom, you take the kids. You’re going to clean them up, keep them overnight, and get them to school tomorrow for their pictures, right? Just make it happen. Get out of here. Lover, you and I are going out tonight, to that special place. And by ‘special place’, I mean my pants.”
As I saw his mother hurry the kids out the door I felt my body swoon and flush as he uttered the words. It was so masculine and forceful, like a circular saw cutting through a sensual two-by-four.
I could see, then, that his pants were burning with love.
“Wait. Before I put out that fire, I need to tell you something. It’s important. I’m preg...”
“I know,” he said. “Say no more.” His voice--so strong, so calming, so confident, and in his deep valley of comforting tone that both soothes and aches my loins. “To the bedroom my lady. We’ll make out. And more.”
“Ooh,” I said, as my body quivered. The kids, the haircut, the near miss with the tricycle, the overflowing toilet...everything seemed so inconsequential and irrelevant compared to this moment. This hot, heated, tropically scalding, very high temperatured moment. MY moment. With him. “What’s that I’m feeling?” I said.
Softly, in my ear, he whispered, “That’s the love that I vowed unto you a score ago on our wedding night. It’s all yours, lover.” And then, still forcefully, he swept me off my feet, slung me over his shoulder, and carried me up to the bedroom.
There was a fresh, cold six-pack next to the bed. “It’s all for you,” he said. Again, I swooned!
The fire in my erect goosebumps aroused to a height I never thought possible. My chest was heaving. Heave after heave after heave until it could heave no more. I was heaveless.
*4-1/2 minutes later*
“Whew...that was fun! Thanks!” he said, as he rolled over to the side and fell asleep.
The next day we were in each others’ arms, waiting for the kids’ return, resting on the couch, and watching the day’s sporting events.
Pat: Hey man...that was fun. That shit is HOT!
Christian: We totally put the ‘ca’ in erotica.
Pat: You know, I think we really captured the woman’s perspective on this one. My wife is totally gonna’ see herself in this. Hell, she might even think she wrote it herself!
Christian: Oh totally. Is there any bourbon left?
Pat: Let me check. Umm...nope.