I will give you fair warning: If you don't want to hear references to sex, then probably skip this post. If you're like me, however, and find that TMI makes a good story all the better, read on.
If you are currently or ever have been pregnant, you know that, save for random hormonal fluxes, you're generally not feeling your most sexy. I know that there are some women for whom the complete opposite is true, though- they feel like sexy goddesses throughout their entire pregnancy. I am not this woman. I do enjoy the round tummy, which is finally getting big enough to feel firm and balloon like and cute, and I do enjoy bigger boobs, 'cause Lord knows I'm not overly endowed in that area to begin with. But I do not enjoy heartburn and constant hunger and fatigue and backache and hip aches and gas and waddling. I do not enjoy the way I seem to be mysteriously harboring half my baby weight in my thighs. Anyways, let's suffice it to say that when pregnant, I am not exactly wandering around the house in skimpy lingerie with a come-hither look in my eye.
But there are occasions when I actually "feel like it" and am the initiator- only about once or twice a trimester, but still. And last night, I decided, would be one of those nights. I had actually done my hair and worn makeup, and I did some bathing and perfuming and then managed to dig up a negligee that would actually fit over my stomach- it was a pink floral print, hardly one of my favorites and I'm not actually sure where or when I acquired it, but there it was and it fit, so I wiggled myself into it, huffing and puffing and hopping on my good leg, and voila! Sexy. Or at least as sexy as it gets right now.
Of course, standing for an extended period of time to shave my legs, balancing first on the bad knee leg and then on the sore hip leg, had left me shaky and fatigued. Then, walking as gracefully as I could to the den to reveal my frisky self, I realized that I was also starving. I had forgotten about dinner due to the weird eating habits the weekend always seems to bring about in our house. So I was getting a little clammy with cold sweat from a low blood sugar level as well.
I passed through the laundry room, determined to power through the hunger, and observed about a trillion ants swarming all over and around the dog's food dish, where someone had scraped a few of Addy's leftovers that the dog hadn't discovered yet. There were ants EVERYWHERE. I grit my teeth and found the Windex and paper towels. But oh, the Windex had not yet been opened, and the little red cap was stuck in the off position and I could not get it open to spray and kill all the little ants, and I was standing there, simultaneously freezing and sweating in my thin nightie, growling and huffing and trying to open the Windex, when Jim finally heard me.
He got the Windex open, we killed the ants and cleaned them up, put the mat under the dog dish in the washer, and Jim cleaned out both the dog bowls so as to not poison the dog with Windex. It was not exactly my idea of foreplay. Also, after all the bending and wiping of the floor, my knee was swollen and throbbing.
When we were finally finished with the ant crisis, Jim noted my attire, coupled with my distinctly unseductive mood. "So yeah... Maybe not tonight," I shrugged apologetically, piling a plate with cheese and crackers and removing the ice pack from the freezer. "The mood has passed."
It had been replaced by the mood to lay in bed with a protein-filled snack, an ice pack around my knee, and a Benadryl working its magic on my stuffy, achy head. After one episode of Friends and about a dozen Triscuits, my shaky body, now dressed in flannel, was much, much happier. Now that is my kind of satisfaction.