Do as I Say, Not as I Do

The Tuna Man and I have been on quite the upswing lately. Sexually speaking, of course. Maybe it was his impending entrance into his mid-thirties or the fact that I'm so fucking hot, but we've been getting our grove on quite a bit lately.

And damn, do I miss condoms.

Well, I mean, I don't miss buying them, paying for them, stopping to roll them on, and all that fun stuff. But I do miss the no-fuss clean-up.

Now we're going through towels like the boys in the bath.

And you know we rarely do laundry. We need to buy more towels.

And a hamper, because man, speaking of the baths...our bedroom has been smelling like one lately.

For two or three nights in a row, I was complaining to my husband, "It smells like sex in here. Do you smell that? It smells kind of sweet and, I don't know...like sex!"

To which he always replied, "No."

He's a talker, that one.

But on Tuesday, when I crawled into bed to take that much-needed nap, I noticed that the smell was even stronger. So I went on a mysterious odor treasure hunt.

I found a cup of coffee tucked behind a frame and the lamp on my nightstand.

I barely ever drink coffee, and I rarely drink coffee in bed. But I do seem to remember slipping between the sheets with a warm Vienna Cafe on the first day of school. Three weeks ago.

My coffee had a grown a little fuzz family all it's own. Their first-born child was boarding a little fuzz bus on it's way to school. And the whole fuzz family was waving good-bye.

Gag.

Here I am grounding my daughter for all the disgusting things she's done in her room, and I'm conducting science experiments in mine.

I'm going to have to keep my parents from telling her about that time they found the stack of dishes I had hidden under my bed or my credibility is going to be shot to hell.