Putting the Anal in Holy Week

You ever try to pull something together into a joke and no matter how you force it, it just falls flat?

I spent the last few days at my parents' house. I had the luxury of showering, uninterrupted, for 20 straight minutes, two days in a row.

Wednesday, in the shower, thoughts of blogging began to take over my brain, and I started thinking about writing another Lenten post, about how God must have a sense of humor, and how I'm probably going to Hell because I put the ... hmmmm ... anal in Christi-anal-ity? Mm, not quite. Cathanalocism?

I put the anal in ... let's see ... benevolence ... banalovence ... noooo, that doesn't work.

Let's just say it went downhill from there and that I came to the conclusion that I'm just a fornicator, but I'll never be a sexually-practicing gay man because, among other reasons (lack of penis playing a big part here), I will never, ever let anything in my outbox. Ever.

Ever.

Ever again.

Anyway.

Where were we? Oh, yes. I'm having a 30-something crisis. Gawd! Do you remember that show? Those were some melodramatic yuppies, man. I don't think television has since or will ever again witness such an influx of L.L. Bean. They're probably still riding off the profits from that.

Well, that, and from all the plaid flannel they sold to the Northern Exposure wardrobe department.

I don't mean to come down on Bean. They make a helluva duck boot.

And I hear their monogrammed, cedar-chip dog beds are quite nice.

It's just that I got over L.L. Bean in the 1988-1989 school year, right about the time I swept oak-and-brass furniture and Tretorns out of my life.

Incidentally, that's also the year of my second round of crushes, my first crush being the previous summer, when I found myself head-over-heels for a clueless, ruddy-cheeked, adventuresome boy called G. Willie (not a joke; really his name; I liked a cleverly disguised dick joke even before I knew what one was).

I met G. Willie at nature camp, and I went along with all his adventures, such as claiming an abandoned camp cabin in the woods as his new club house. He had this adorable lisp for a 12-year-old (I was 9), and he was so, so smart about naturey things and what to do with a stick. Honh, honh, honh! (Say it all Frenchy.)

Also? G. Willie had messy hair, which turns out? Total turn-on for me throughout my life. Mm. I love me some messy geek.

Anyway.

What was I saying?

Right. 1988-1989 school year. The year of Daniel and Larry. *sigh*

Daniel R. and Larry H. sat across from me in our four-square table of arranged desks next to the teacher's desk (partially because we were the smart kids, and partially because we never shut up), and I was romantically torn. Neither knew my feelings, but still, I couldn't decide.

Larry probably eventually won me over because Daniel was cast as Romeo in the 8th-grade play, so that pretty much gave Larry a big plus. Did I mention I like geeks?

Anyway, Danel R. and Larry H. both had messy chocolate hair, although Daniel's was a little wavier and Larry's was shiny and almost black. Ruddy cheeks on both. Both easy to blush.

Larry had a charming smile and a twinkle in his eye that were almost - dareIsay - complimented by his big, gapped front teeth.

Daniel had fair skin, freckles and was just a little bit whiney - which, for those of you not in the know of 5th grade lust - equals angst a la characters played by John Cusack. Also, he looked very similar to Harry Potter in the first movie. Totes adorable, no?

This is all completely pointless, and I really don't know where I was going with the Saga of Daniel R. and Larry H.

Somehow I was going to bring this story 'round to the reasons I cannot give PHubby a blow j. tonight.

Sooo, here: something, something, segue, amusing quip, snark.

I just spent several days with the kids, visiting my parents. He's been alone and lonely. I came home to a very clean and sweet-smelling house. He totally deserves some oral.

I curled up next to him on the couch, totally exhausted, and told him it's not just because I'm tired that I'm planning not to blow him tonight and that I would provide a list.

1. The flowering trees are blooming, and the postnasal drip makes me feel like I have vaginosis of the uvula. Scratchy and swollen.

This made him ask how many times I've had vaginosis.

Shit. *Busted.*

"Never. It's just what I bet it would feel like. Only in my throat."

2. Our son has been yelling for four days. (He's 3. I've now given up and am OK with being labeled a bad parent.)

3. Although tomorrow is the most solemn of the Christian calendar, I'm 90 percent sure our kids were conceived on Good Friday before service. We'll be fasting. I'll need the sustenance.

4. I'm fucking tired.

And for all of those reasons, I am prematurely ending this blog post. If PHubby prematurely ended anything, he wouldn't have to wait.