Usually our snail mail consists of bills, solicitous shit for a long dead fellow, and Land’s End catalogues.
Usually the minute Chris walks in the door all the pets go racing towards him and Mac starts screaming “GAH, Gah, Gah!!!”
Usually, Chris throws all the mail on the desk, acknowledges the cats and dogs and heads straight towards Mac.
Tonight, he noticeably paused while throwing the mail on the desk.
I watch from the kitchen as the chants for GAH! get louder.
Is it a Jury Summons? Oh shit, a parking violation? A note from the IRS? What have I done now?!
What is causing that intent look on Chris’ face?
He goes running, he walks the dogs, we have dinner.
He hasn’t said boo about the mail.
I nearly forget about it.
Then I look at the mail. Somehow the heaven’s delivered this to our door:
Of course, I mock him relentlessly. “Didn’t we buy something at Fredrick’s once?” he asks in a kinda’ nonchalant tone. “Nearly a decade ago,” I snort “This isn’t my catalogue.” (It belongs to someone the next block over according to the address).
He looks disappointed.
“But if there was this sort of stuff in the house we could be like one of those Cialis commercials” he insists.
He doesn’t have erectile dysfunction, what he means is if I had the time or energy or a fantastic ass to parade around all day long in this kinda’ stuff, there might be spontaneous sex happening. A. Lot.
Right. . .time, energy and fantastic ass aside, there’s still a kid in the house. And after you get past that cock block, you likely have a dog panting in your face or a cat walking on your head.
If you are getting lucky in this joint, it’s hardly similar to an idyllic erectile dysfunction commercial – lingerie requires money and implies a delicious lingering – neither of which we will have again until we are likely too old to enjoy either.
No wonder my poor Husband offered to personally deliver the miss-directed mail.
Frankly, as I sit here still wearing my maternity foundation garments, I can’t blame him.