Mish-mash and flash, possibly NSFW

Today is my BFF's birthday. She's the awesomest for many, many reasons, but I think what drew us together was something very special.

Flashers.

You see, when I was about 11, I was walking down a fairly rural road with a friend I've long since forgotten, when a car drove slowly by us. It drove up the street, turned onto another road, did a three-point-turn and parked in front of a bridge.

It was a brilliant, sunny day, and I remember feeling particularly attractive in my rolled-up, cut-off jean shorts, Coca-Cola T-shirt, and Keds, so I really can't blame the driver of the car for what happened next.

When my friend and I looked back, a man had gotten out of the parked car and was, as I later told the police officer, "wiggling it around." (I would use the phrase again in 8th-grade math class, but that's a story for another day.)

I can still picture how the man looked. Shirt unbuttoned, tan shorts unzipped, mustache (of course), crappy red car.

My friend was devastated. The display had clearly ruined her childhood.

As we ran for her house, she screaming for her mother, I turning around for additional glimpses, I had a hard time keeping up. It's so hard to have enough breath for running when you're doubled over with laughter. Add pointing to the mix, and it's amazing I ever made it back to my friend's house.

Flash forward a few years, and I'm a freshman in college. I make friends with a girl in my dorm and we get to talking. Turns out? She was flashed, too.

One day, BFF and her grade school classmates were enjoying recess on the playground, when who should show up? A man with a penis, and he was ready to share.

While the other children were horrified, crying, scared, yelling, calling for their mommies, what did BFF do?

She went back for a second look.

And that, dear readers, is, I believe, the foundation of our friendship. I heart you, biffles. To the max, 4-evahs.

And now ... on to our regularly scheduled post ...

PHubby and I were tired last night, and we spent a lot of conversation not-really-joking joking about how lazy we could be about sex. It was mostly a tired barter over who would take the lead.

I considered offering a future BJ in exchange for not being on top, but let's face it, I'm about 48 years backed up on blow job promises, and we all know it.

He said maybe we should just do it sideways and hope for an earthquake to provide movement. Not a bad plan, really.

I was contemplating our sex plans as I was completing a few evening chores, when I passed the litter box in the upstairs hallway. After the ammonia sucked all the oxygen out of my lungs, I passed out for about 40 seconds.

I came to, scraped myself off the floor, and walked downstairs with a deal in mind.

Me:  Tell you what, honey. If you change the cat litter, I'll consider it foreplay. Wash your hands afterward, and we can skip cuddling.

PHubby:  Heh.

Me:  Oh, come on. That deserved more than a half-chuckle.

PHubby:  I know. I'm laughing inside. I was just trying to figure out how I could turn that into a standard agreement.

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I have all sorts of saved drafts of blog posts. Some of them are just lists of one-sentence ideas, such as:

"The time my dad ate Snausages."

"The time I stuck a clothespin on my dad's nipple."

"The time my dad set a pizza on fire."

I'm going to have to get him something good for Father's Day.

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I use Palmolive Eco dishwasher detergent, because I am an environmentalist, and why aren't you?

But here's the problem: it looks and smells exactly like semen. I try not to think about it when I get my coffee cup out of the dishwasher in the morning.

PHubby was all, "You should write a blog post about all the things that smell like semen."

I'm aware of only two things: Bradford Pear trees and Palmolive Eco dishwasher detergent. If we're not counting semen itself, I mean.

Before you ask - No, Palmolive is not paying me to push its product, although I'm sure my ringing endorsement will cause a run on it.