Next Stop! Everybody Off!

If I break down life into segments, I bet I could log weekly events that are blog worthy.  I’ve been saying for too long that I need my own reality TV show.  I’m telling you, there’d be followers and there’d be tweets.  Lots of ‘em.

People tell me my life is easily a 365 daily report waiting to happen.  That’s too much pressure for me.  If I did have a quiet day, and only landed 364 things, I’d feel like I was failing and the pressure would start to mount.  I’ll stick to the 52 per year weekly idea.  There’s wiggle room there.

If something is going to happen to someone, that someone is me.  If someone is going to trip, it’s me who will lose her tooth.  If there is a flying bee, I’m to be stung.  Twice.

If a beautiful river tubing expedition is planned, I will get the guide who forgets to tell me where the pick up spot is, rendering my unsure cruising miles and miles past the intended end spot, resulting in sun burns, exhaustion and delirum (this really did happen, I swear.)

In the words of Bicepual, he declared early in our courting days, “Why does it always have to be an adventure with you?”  I of course told him to quit whining and insisted he continue pulling our tube rafts up the Wisconsin River like a mule herd of Alaskan Huskies.  Mush, boy!

For years, this has been a running joke to those who know me IRL.  Things simply happen to me - not for me, but TO me, around me, by me.  Never fails. 
Surprisingly, Bicepual still got down on one knee and proposed to me a few years back.  Even after I said yes, he didn’t run, but rather actually married me.  Who knows what he was thinking honestly.  Some thrill seekers settle on sky diving or bungee jumping for that adreneline rush.  He married me.

So, here is my latest (weekly if you will) rendition of domestic crazy.  The husband likes to do things; he likes to go out to eat, he likes to go on vacation.  He likes to look the part of the normal family.  A lot.  He loves all these experiences.  I’m not saying I disagree or don’t like them.  I do too.  However our checkbook loathes it, and would frequently lash out in hissy fits of overdraft notices if we didn’t shut the bitch up once in awhile with stealing money from the kids.

I chalk his wanting to be ‘normal‘  to his being married before to someone who, from the lore I hear, hated it.  At least she hated it with him.  God knows she loved it with his friends.  Let’s leave this subject to wither and die here, shall we? 
They didn’t have a good marriage, and it was a short one, almost sentenced to death at the alter of conception.  So he comes from this background of not experiencing time-togetherness, and now, he lusts after just that.  

Time.  

With me.  

His wife.

There is not a week that goes by that Bicepual doesn’t remark that we need to ‘go out‘ because he can’t remember the last time we ‘went out.‘  I’m all for the time with him, don’t get me wrong.  He makes me smile.  He pinches my ass when no one looks, and then he pinches it a second time when he’s sure they are looking.  He opens doors for me.  God, he makes me laugh!  If I could realistically figure out a way to support his habit of wanna be baller 24/7, out and about, I would.  Family life tends to not mesh well with Meth Dealer, and since I already had children, I figured I better not cross career paths.  But in addition to being the wifey, I am also the budgeteer.  Those combined titles suck ass, I might add.  I always know in the back of my head how much (or how little) money we have, and to be a play-ah at the same time, we’re talking oil and water here folks.  Oil and water.

He is, by all accounts, a movie nutjob.  He likes all flicks.  Action.  Rom Com.  Horror.  Comedy.  Chick flicks.  Those ‘other‘ kind of chick flicks.  His favorite movies are James Bondsy type, which peak my interest level at squat BTW, but he’d go to the theatre for just about anything.  I’m in it for the popcorn that comes with the deal to be quite honest.

We planned a dinner out this week for a change up, and that is all he needs to know, that we’re ‘going out’.  He immediately apps up his movie finder on his phone and searches out his top 20 picks.  We settled on a comedy, and I laughed until my smokin’ hot makeup was smudged.  Felt good.  No regrets on that choice.

Dinner was at a sweet little Italian place a friend owns, but a place nevertheless we had not yet been to (Deeeee-lish, BTW Miss K.  We’ll be back.  The on sale whiskey old fashioned sweets didn’t hurt anything but maybe a sliver of my liver either.  My diet consumed the cherries as a fruit of this-is-as-healthy-as-it-gets.)  The north woodsy themed rustic restaurant set back in Tourist Country, nestled due north here of Gods Country, had us walking into a beaut of a mindset that we were, in fact, on a date.

Like any other married couple who gets away to date, the first thing we talked about was the kids.  We eventually moved on to upcoming business plans and the pets exercise regimen (they have none; we’re so proud) so by the time dinner was through, a few bar drinks afterwards, and we were set to go home.

Or so he thought. *menacing snicker*

As he headed south on the highway home, what he didn’t know is that I had cash in my wallet and when I told him to take a different route, he was more perturbed than intrigued that my way added a few extra minutes to his. 

“Pull in.”, I instructed, as I directed him to the parking lot of an adult gift store.  

First of all, let me state, “Porn Store” makes it sound all dingy and slimey, full of rank smells and dark corners where I just know disease and assaults lurk.  But, “Adult Gift Store”...you can just visualize the neon lights of promise, can’t you?  That being said, once parked and pretending to dig through my purse for something I didn’t need, I got out of the car, head held high, and made a beeline for the blacked out front door so no one wizzing by on the highway would make me.  I always expect a full S.W.A.T. team to come blaring in with lights and sirens, and I’ll be left standing there by the door, caught on Live Action Channel 55 News Bust Raid.  Remember, things happen TO me, so I figure it’s only a matter of time.  Kinda surprised it hasn’t happened yet actually.  That reminds me, I should blog about the time my car broke down at this exxxact porn store.  Try explaining that to your cop father.  I’ll save that for another time.

This time, as a jetted quickly to the door, Bicepual excitedly right behind me, I hear him say, “Whoops.  Forgot my wallet.  Be right back.”

And he’s gone.

Leaving me standing there outside the door.  Alone.  *Insert sigh here*  Now the predicament is, do I stand here, alone, in my little dress and fancy sandals, pedicure on, wallet in hand and wait for him, alone?  Or do I go in, alone?

I used to come here often for greeting cards that were the funniest.  I actually shopped here!  You can’t get them anywhere else.  Face it, Hallmark just doesn’t sell naked Easter Bunny cards or risque Cock in a Box birthday cards and actually have a 3D cock jump out at the birthday gal.  I’m so fun to invite.  I used to come here for party supplies when I wanted to jazz up an event with that special touch of just under the lip of inappropriateness.  You’d think I’d be familiar enough with the idea of a place like this, but the truth is, I am not.  Blame my Catholic upbringing if you’d like, but walking into a porn store is an adrenline rush of this-is-me-behaving-badly attitude.  I want to be excited about it all, and then I immediately feel shame for wanting to be excited.  (Just go in for cripes sake, I told myself).

I decided to wait for Bicepual.  The 2 minutes it took him to go back to the car seemed like forever, and I feverishly examined the wooden porch on the building like a professional house flipper looking for termite damage.  Dawdle.  Dawdle.  Dawdle.  

He finally made his way and we walked in.  Carded and given the schpeel as to not take pictures or video within the building, we were welcomed by Tina, the shoeless wonder (seriously she was walking around in socks.  At least the matched her sweats.) and set free.  Amid the other couples there, we were the only people looking at the couple stuff.  Everyone else came through the doors to go directly to the Pipe section.  By their smell and foggy eyes, you knew they weren’t there to roll their own Marlboros.  But, they sure were happily foggy, I’ll give them that.  As random people gathered around the bongs and pipes, we went on our misguided way to the back of the store.

“I have $100 cash.  You can pick out anything you want, but it’s gotta be your decision.”

This is what I said, and this is my idea of voluptious seducing of my dear husband.  Am I awesome or what?

As we looked together throughout the store, we eventually separated into our own mini worlds within and I perused many a simple, yet sometimes delieriously complicated and confusing products meant to help in the means of, well, getting off.  In the dire state of the world today, is this such a bad thing?  If you’re an adult, and responsible, why not just get off for God’s sake?  Feels good.  Makes you happy.  While life is the longest thing we do, it is too short folks.  Drop your panties at the door with your judgments and just go in already!  (I should write Hallmark cards.  Fo’ real.)

As I eventually made my way to the oils and lotions and gooey things section, I see a bouncy ponytail and socks hopping my way.  Tina.
I wonder how many Facebook friend requests she gets after a weekend on the clock.  How many inbox messages she receives that start with, “You sold me some gack, and now I have this itching sensation....”

Tina barges in on my bubble. 
“This is my favorite!” she offers and grabs in front of me to a musky lube oil and shoves the sample right under my nose.
“Oh! Oh! And I have this one in my own bedroom!” She giggles. 

I think in pictures, so now I have a socked version of a mini Polly Anna porn running my through my head, complete with the smells of Blueberry Bliss.  

Never gonna get that outta there.  

Never, ever.

Bicepual is lost to the back corner of pumps and dolls, wedges and movies (told ya, he’s a movie guy.  And the genres......good lord.  They cover everything don’t they? Midget black bi playing dress up with animals to Top 40 hits of the 60’s.  Sheesh.  Can we get a little more specific?) and while he didn’t officially pick out any of those (silent personal prayer answered on the pump subject, let me tell you), he did settle on a few unmentionables (Don’t ask.  I am not telling.  Come on, even I have to have a filter somewhere here).  I trudged my way to Tina’s raised check out stand.  Raised, as in above the level of the floor my peon self stood on.  Raised, as in she stepped up to ring up our merchandise.  She’s like a socked verison of Princess Kate, a little less polished, reigning over her Triple X kingdom from aloft.  I expected her to wave and throw gold coins.

For what we bought that night, it wasn’t so intimidating.  Had to pay cash of course. In small town America, one can’t risk all the neighbors who work at the local banking instituion see that transaction come through on the old debit card.  You never know who’s going to have one too many PBR’s at the next reunion picnic and mention it to LuLu Lips.

“Because you’re a girl....” (thanks for noticing, Princess) Tina said, as she threw in a handful of, no coins, but freebie flicks and lubes, promotional items (how’d ya like to be that salesman?)  And we were on our way.

Am I more common, run of the mill, than I’d think?  Do all self resepecting middle aged housewives end a dinner date at a porn store?  I wonder just how rare I am.

Awesome wife, or tainted citizen?  

Great date, or menace to society?

After our date, I began to actually ponder if things don’t just happen to me, rather maybe I make them happen, by posing such freakish moments like this weekend.  It was my idea after all.  Maybe I’m just.  that.  awesome. of a wife!  Maybe I’m asking for these times, which undoubtedly will be marked as odd or weird, asking for nothing but trouble at some turn down the road.  Maybe somewhere inside, I want the stories and the experiences.  Naysayers will tsk, tsk me and my unconventional ideas.  Some will think I’ve lost my mind.  Maybe they’re right.  I might need more faith, more discipline, maybe it will fall apart for Biceupal and I because of such outlandish ‘standards‘ in our relationship.

Then I think, eh, he married into it.