Anything following a crackerjack opening sentence like that had better be good. I wish I could say that the situation ended in satin sheets, but it was nothing like that. The next time anyone sees me horizontal and naked, I'll be lying under white cotton with a tag on my toe. And, truth is – given a choice between sex and the sausage rolls at Pete's Frootique, let's say I'd be picking poppy seeds and pastry out of my teeth, content as a pig-in-a-shit-blanket.
The aforementioned package, belonged to an athletic young surfer wearing a wet suit, in a beautiful photograph sent by a client.
"I can see his wiener." I told the client.
"No way... shit, gotta get an iphone, didn't see that on Blackberry." Was her response.
I imagine by now, the photograph is the screen saver on my client's computer, and as to whether we use the photograph or not, has yet to be determined. It's a nice wiener. Likely nicer had it not been dipped in the icy Atlantic moments before. But there it remains, a conversation between two women, well past the years when the surfer boy may have pointed his long board our way.
People say once the Little Bastard has moved away, and I have my so-called life back, that my cougar instincts will shove my maternal instincts aside and I'll be out looking for Mr. Goodbar. I somehow doubt that, but I am willing to be proven wrong. Having spent last week alone, the only thing I truly desired (besides RRSPs) was what I already have – minus the freezer full of chicken nuggets, and the skid marks on the towels.
A friend recently commented on Facebook how she misses her kids, "driving them to hockey, music, dance, miss their loud voices, miss their belly laugh, even miss their messy rooms!" I offered to loan her mine, but only in semi-jest. I like where I am right now, as boring as that seems.
If and when the Little Bastard leaves the nest, I plan to burn all the furniture, the rugs, the balled up hockey socks, the stacks of Sports Illustrated – and I'll ignite it all with the shitty towels – if they haven't already self-combusted. My hot flashes of late could start a bonfire worthy of a really big weenie roast, but that's all part and parcel of being 40-something-ish (and holding).
In the meantime, I have 3 trips to a variety of rinks this weekend, piles of laundry, and thankfully a few more years before I started investing in the geriatric, bunion-friendly version of "fuck me" pumps. I also plan on attending Maritime Travel's Vacation Superstore because travel is my aphrodisiac, and I plan on filling out every goddamned trip-winning ballot at the WTCC. Who knows... I just may get lucky.
With middle age comes the confidence of knowing if you had the wiener, you'd know what to do with it. And the self-contentedness of settling for the sausage roll.