There's Something About Boudicca

So, my mother-in-law was here last weekend for a quick visit. She came in because it was grandparents' day at Tank's school last Thursday. She stuck around until Monday morning and then headed back down to Atlanta. My wife's brother and his wife had their first baby about a week and a half ago, and my mother-in-law is headed down to help out.

Anyway, my daughter had a birthday party on Saturday afternoon that I took her to, and my wife and my mother-in-law and I (along with the kids) decided to meet for dinner Saturday night. Due to the party running a little late and the fact that I don't own a cell phone (a fact of which I'm proud, truth be told), we coasted in late to dinner, my daughter and I, and I slipped into my seat next to my wife.

After chatting for a little bit, explaining why I was late and talking about how we got lost on the way to the party and how I ran over a bum begging for handouts at the exit off I-40 blah blah blah...my wife was sitting there adjusting her hair, running her fingers through her shiny, sleek, and gorgeous red tresses, when she makes the comment that her hair smells like the aftermath of our sexual adventures. This causes me to chuckle aloud.

As you might imagine, when one's mother-in-law is about, the sexual misadventures grind to a halt. There's something about a wife not wanting her mother to hear "harder, harder, harder, oh, God, yes, harder, oh, God, yes, Mike Rowe, you're such a dirty, dirty man!" and "alright, fine, but just keep it out of my eyes" and "seriously, do I have to be Little Bo Peep again???" Oh, sure, we could close the door, but even then, my mother-in-law would suspect something was up when she heard the braying of a zebra.

Have any of you thrown up in your mouth yet?

During the week last week, we were busy cleaning and working and preparing for my mother-in-law's visit, so there was still no time for sexual congress to take place, so by the time Friday night rolled around, I needed an outlet. So, I did the laundry by hand, if you get what I'm saying. And if you don't, you're really stupid and probably should cull yourself from the gene pool right now. Go on. We'll wait. Better? Thanks.

After rubbing one out, things were...messy, to say the least. I went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel to clean up and thought, "Hmmm, I'll just toss this on the floor near these dirty clothes." A logical place, right? The dirtiest of towels on the floor with the dirty clothes? No one picks a towel up off the floor to dry themselves off with, right? I thought so, too.

Apparently, when my wife went to dry herself off Saturday morning after her shower, instead of grabbing the towel tossed over the towel bar above the tub or the two hanging over the towel rack on the wall, she went right for the dirty of dirties on the floor, dried herself off, and then wrapped her hair in preparation for drying it.

This, of course, just caused me to laugh and ask why she went for the towel on the floor. She asked why I didn't just wake her up, and I played the loving husband card and said that I thought I'd just let her sleep, since she was so tired and had to get up in the morning and go to work. I'm just that caring.

So, we sat there at our table, whispering and giggling over the scenario and how she smelled my musk throughout the day. I'm sure my mother-in-law could overhear us, or could logic out what we were saying from the giggling and such, but if she did, she was kind enough not to say anything. We continued on, making plans for after my mother-in-law left and me making hair countless hair gel jokes until our food finally showed up.

And then Brett Favre walked into the restaurant.