Talk dirty to me

It’s Monday morning and glancing at the clock I notice that, once again, I’m running late.  Every single day I find myself in this position.  I need to leave the house in 5 minutes in order to make it to work on time, but I still have at least 10 minutes worth of things to do before I get out the door.

I toss the last few dishes into the dish washer and quickly wipe down the counter.  Well, the two inches of counter space that we actually have, thanks to our un-renovated apartment and The Fiance’s inability to live without a microwave.  Although, let’s be honest, I can’t really survive without microwavable popcorn anyway.

This is probably the reason why I’m always running late.  I feel a pull, subconscious, genetic, whatever there’s some kind of pull that draws me to deciding to do all my chores when, and only when, I don’t have the time to do them.  It’s a mystery that will probably never be solved, and a cycle that I’m clearly not doing much to break.

I’m bumping and banging around the kitchen trying to get my lunch packed and my breakfast shake ready to go.  The Fiance comes meandering in to put his kettle on to boil.  I swear, that man moves so slowly in the mornings it’s a miracle he ever gets to the office.

As I wrench open the freezer for my frozen berries, an avalanche of various ice cream containers come tumbling down upon me.  Hmmm… Ice cream in my shake could be good…  But when I look at the carton to see what kind of flavor it is, I read “Carb Smart!  Made with Splenda!”

“Ew!  Your fake ice cream $h!t just attacked me.” I grumpily shoved it back in the freezer.  Why bother making an unhealthy shake with low carb ice cream?

“It’s not $h!t.  It’s actually not bad,” he’s literally standing at the stove watching the kettle boil.  “Granted, it’s no Brownie Batter; no Chunky Monkey; no Caramel Fudge Ripple Cookie Dough Ice Cream.  But it’s not bad.”

By the time he got to “monkey,” I had frozen in place.  My jaw had dropped and there might have been some drool.  As he finished his reminiscence of the “good stuff” we’ve been denying ourselves on this wedding diet, he turned to look at me.

I closed my mouth and licked my lips.  “Mmmmmm….  I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“Oh yeah?  Like pistachio. Mmhmm.  White chocolate macadamia nut.  Butter pecan.  Rawr.”

I stood there for a few seconds before reality came rushing back at me.  I was definitely going to be late for work.  Finishing up my shake, I threw everything into my bag.  On my way out the door, The Fiance came over to give me my customary goodbye kiss.

He leaned in closer.  Closer.  Gave me a wink with his dreamy blue eyes.  Then at the last second veered away from my lips and oh so seductively whispered against my ear,

Peanut butter cup.

Then he turned me around, shoved me out the door, and closed it while I just stood there gaping.

What a stud muffin.


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