Last night right after work, some friends of mine had a little cocktail party, and by "little" I mean maybe 15 people, which probably took 27 hours of planning and cleaning and cooking and ambiance-ing. Little. Pfft.
Anyway, they have that kind of house where you walk in and immediately get enveloped in how wonderful the place is, you know what I mean? Sometimes you walk in to a house and can just feel the happy. There was a huge fire burning, and it smelled wonderful, and the food and the serving dishes were beautiful, the music was great, and you couldn't help but be content the whole time you were there.
I love parties like that. Remind me to tell you about the knocked-in-the-head conversation we had.
On the walk to the car after, the moon was a giant peach, hanging low and almost full in the sky. The air smelled clean, and everything was lovely.
Then I went home, and Ned and I discussed the P word.
I'd been looking at something or other online--oh, I remember. OM-ing. Allegedly, you can meditate your way to orgasm, which sure. Okay, fruitcake. The fact that I roll my eyes at this Michiganly does not mean I didn't watch the whole video about it. The person telling us about this phenomenon was mature and seemed intelligent, and she was pretty clinical, except every time she referred to her girl bits, she'd call her girl bits the P word. "And then I concentrate on my [P-word]," she'd say, the way you'd say "constitutional rights" or "401(k)."
"It was awful," I told Ned, who of course wanted to hear all about OM-ing, because if I'm over there meditating my way to happiness, he could get a lot more done in a weekend. "Finally whitewalled those tires! June learned to OM!"
"She used the P-word over and over, " I told him.
"Oh, I like that word," said Ned, like that was a normal thing to say.
"WHAT? I've never heard you say that dreadful word," I mean, he doesn't, unless he's reacting to some man doing something he disapproves of, such as crying while watching a sunset or ordering a sweet drink or smiling affectionately at a child. THEN I've heard him use that word, but not about actual women parts.
"Every man uses that word," said Ned, who is wrong. We discussed it for awhile, Ned quite smug in the fact that this was The Secret Language of All Men Everywhere, Even Tim Gunn.
A while later, I was sitting across the couch with Lily on my lap. Tallulah was at the door, moaning the way she does. "HmmmMMMMM!" she'll say, sounding precisely like Chewbaca. "OooooUMMMMM."
"Will you let Tallulah out?" I asked old P is my favorite letter, over there. "I have a Lily on me."
Ned was reading a book. "That dog just WENT out half an hour ago," he said, not looking up.
"Yes, she did, but what if half an hour ago she didn't have to poop or something, and now half an hour later she has a turtle head poking out?"
Ned looked up from his book.
"A WHAT?" he asked.
"A tur--"
"I HEARD you," he said, getting up in disgust. "I heard you, I just can't believe I heard you. A TURTLE HEAD? Oh, June, that is awful." Ned blanched, so revolted was he. If he'd had pearls, he'd have clutched them, aghast. He stalked out of the room, offended to his very core. He may have to write his congressman.
Really, I don't see what the big deal is. "A turtle head poking out" is a wonderfully descriptive phrase. I can't believe Ned go so bent out of shape about it.
What a pussy.
