Desperate Porn-Writing Housewives

Okay– I don’t write porn, you all know I don’t, but it’s so much fun to get everyone’s attention that way! And, well, it does make the story better.

So I had to give up my work out this morning because the phone repair guy was coming, right? (And if I was a MILF instead of, you know, me, that WOULD be the intro to a porn flick. Also, if my teenaged son wasn’t hanging around the house being bored and useful between classes, because the MILF flicks tend to just blow off the whole “must have children” part of that acronym.) Anyway, it was okay, because I was JUST at the end of my Christmas story (due tomorrow) and I got into a real groove, and, well, was writing my ass off!

And it’s a short story. And I was at the, erm, climax of the story. And leading to the climax of the climax, mostly, if you know what I mean.

And then the phone guy arrived. At first, the only big deal was my humiliation in letting a complete stranger into THE dirtiest house of all time. Yeah–it’s a mess. I’m having cleaning delusions, and I may even get to some of them before we take off on Friday, but in the meantime, I’ve got the stranger, my house crapgasm, and my complete embarrassment.

Oh yeah. And the dog. The dog was okay with the guy, right up until we hid her when he went into the back yard and then she SAW him walk from the side of the house without seeing how he got there. She almost had a heart attack, and then, as she bayed in the guy’s face, she almost shared with him.

We dragged her to the garage, and the poor man then said, “Oh, hey, can I see your modem?”

My son had to show him where our modem was. I had no idea what that piece of equipment on the top of the bookshelf was–and then the nice repairman (ginger hair, freckles, average build, COMPLETELY bomb proof expression) had to root around between the kids’ bed and the bookshelf in order to unplug the the damned thing. Oh the dust! Oh the beany babies! Oh the nameless, sticky substances! *shudder*

I couldn’t watch. I came in to the kitchen with the crumbs on the tablecloth and sat down to finish my, erm, climactic part of the story. I had to turn the internet off–the DSL was unplugged, remember? And this made the next part that much worse.

There I was, one hero undressing the other, breath was coming in pants and pants were coming off and things were sticking out and things were getting stroked and… uhm…

“I’m sorry, can I use your laptop?”

I looked over my shoulder, and there was my bombproof repairman, looking serenely at my two heroes, about ready to do the two-backed mammal.

“Uhm, yeah! Here! Lemme pull up… oh shit… internet! Yeah! Internet! Lemme pull it (oh crap oh crap!) INTERNET!” Now, while I was saying this, I was holding my hand up in front of my screen and looking greenly over my shoulder at the repairman who didn’t know me from any other large woman in a tent-sized Big Dog T-shirt.

He gazed serenely back, and then, oh thank the Goddess, the damned internet came up.

I couldn’t look. I wandered restively around the living room, wondering if I should bother picking shit up. I figured no, because I didn’t on any OTHER given day, and the fact is, we’d had the DSL for eight years and they’re only supposed to last three, so odds were good I wouldn’t be seeing this guy again.

He pulled up the internet and had a question for Mate about “firmware” (and given my now pinpoint obsession about what I was writing about, the word made me giggle like you wouldn’t BELIEVE) and then gave me back the phone.

“Well, I’m done,” he said, and my relief was… well….

“You’re DONE? WHEEE! EXCELLENT! FISTBUMP!”

The guy held his fist up for me gamely, and smiled with bemusement when I did the firework-flameout thing with my hand when I was done.

I’m sure he left nodding his head at the weirdness of folks, and me?

I figured that those people who come up with those movie scenarios must live VERY different kinds of lives.

Oh, and for the closing moment of an odd day? We were driving to soccer practice when Squish said, “Oh look! I saw rabbits! They were in somebody’s yard, and now I believe in BUNNIES!”

That’s a fairly safe thing to believe in, actually–I’m 98% sure they exist.