Last night was going to be The Night.
I felt a lurking presence behind me as I Googled “Thesaurus” trying to find a better word for “engorgement” (don’t ask) on the internet.
I turned to see Henry standing behind me. He was wearing his Mating Plumage. A chest-grazing T-shirt, Calvin Klein briefs that left little to the imagination and the “Blue Steel Look” from Zoolander.
He said nothing. Blue Steel conveyed it all.
“It shall be tonight,” I said.
He gave me his You-Can’t-Imagine-All-The-Naughty-Things-I’m-Going-To-Do-To-You look. Actually I could imagine, we’ve been married ten years. Still, I pretended to shiver like a scared, little bunny before a toothsome, voracious wolf.
“I’ll meet you in the bed at 10 p.m.” I said.
“No. You’ll meet me in the bed at 9:30,” he commanded, reminding me of who was in charge.
I trembled. “It shall be as you say, my Lord. Tonight’s the night!”
However (there’s always a however) at 9:30 p.m. Bridget was refusing to sleep in her bedroom because she’d watched The City of Ember with her older sister Clare who loves terrifying bad guys (I really do have to introduce her to Godzilla and Mothra) and apparently there was an Evil Mole in the movie.
I never saw the movie so I didn’t know how scary the mole actually was because I’m a lazy parent who doesn’t vet all movies.
And besides I grew up in the 70s and my mom (she who shall be blamed for everything) took me to see It’s Alive about the birth of a baby monster who ate all the nurses and the doctor in the delivery room which was a bloody, brain-spattered mess.
So man up about the freakin’ mole, Bridget!
She didn’t man up. Instead she got into our bed like a soldier in a foxhole under heavy shelling.
This was the very same bed in which The Night was supposed to occur. As Henry peeked into our bedroom to see what mischief was afoot I stage-whipered, “Meet me in Bridget’s bed at 10.”
He looked at me like a dissatisfied commanding officer, but nodded his agreement …
However (there that word is again), at 10 p.m. I was in Clare’s room. She’d found her baby book and wanted to know about everything in it.
She informed me I was the Best Mommy in the World (could she finally love me as much as her father?) for making it.
I was flattered and forgot about The Night as we leafed through my scrap-booking masterpiece.
11 p.m. I was getting ready for bed by doing my anti-aging ritual. (No it’s not a Wiccan circle of 46-year old women attempting to stave off menopause by eating the cajones of feral rats!) I was using my various acids to Erase Time.
|The stink is on.|
First, I applied the Perle Skin Brightening cream, which smelled like the inside of a cow’s uterus.
Then I slathered on SkinCeuticals C E Perulic acid stuff, which smelled like Charlie Sheen’s gonads, if one of his angry exes cut them off and boiled them with cabbage.
Shortly thereafter, I applied Oil of Olay’s eye de-puffer stuff and their Regenerist cream.
(Which can actually regenerate the dead.
I woke up one night with Lucille Ball smashing grapes on my face.
I was just about to leave the bathroom, my face a fetid swamp, when I remembered that tonight was supposed to be The Night.
Shit! How could Henry stand to kiss a face that smelled like a laboratory? What to do? What to do?
I could wash all the stuff off.
But no, I could buy a luxury yacht with what this stuff cost. The waste!
Not to mention the environmental damage should this stuff be washed out to sea. Crustaceans wouldn’t be able to grow shells, jellyfish would become opaque, fish would grow lungs and drown!
Then I had the bright idea to swathe myself in luxurious perfume. I had the good stuff. The Jo Malone.
I thought this should camouflage my stench. I spritzed my chest, my neck, my wrists and for good measure my face. Unfortunately I forgot to close one eyeball. The perfume stung like a mother. But The Night had to go on.
Half-blind and reeking of a French whorehouse built on a chemical dump I found Henry on the couch with the lights out awaiting me like a Pasha prince his harem.
I could almost hear the Barry White soundtrack playing in his head.
Look at that guy, I thought, he will not be put off. He doesn’t care what I smell like or how many cupcakes are sitting on my hips.
This thing is gonna happen and it’s gonna happen Tonight!
All I can say is God love those men and their insistent testosterone or we’d all be satisfied just sitting around watching True Blood and eating chocolate. Fade to Black …