- my hormones, that is. or was. while hot pants can brag about her steamy sexcapades, my wild times have vanished. no one is more shocked than i. as h.p. said to me, “wiggles, you had a hell of a ride.” even my daddy used to tell me i came on like the u.s. cavalry. why, when sassafrass left for college with a printed schedule of her orientation week activities, i quipped, “gee, i just slept with a different guy every day. i was getting oriented!” i can only imagine how much therapy she’ll need for that revelation.
- but ’tis no more. the cup on my desk with the slogan “has anyone seen my hormones?” is all too true. i’m done, game over, that’s all she screamed. i barely know who i am anymore.
- the lord & master carries on valiantly. with my assistance, if you catch my drift. only now i keep my clothes on and listen to the iPod, sort of a “whistle while you work” arrangement. i make him guess what music i’ve been using for inspiration. you’d be surprised what fabulous results i’ve gotten with the robert shaw chorale harmonizing on stephen foster ditties. soothing for me; stimulating for him.
- our pooch doesn’t bark along like boo-boo. theo fannybrice prefers a ringside seat from which he can study the action. sometimes he puts a forepaw onto the l&m’s leg, as in, “i’m with you, buddy. go, go, go!” one time he beat me to the scene and i found him smack in between my husband’s legs, terribly pleased with himself for grabbing center stage. a quickly tossed bone sent him back to the cheap seats.
- well, hot pants, you know what they say, different strokes for different folks.