It is PROMPTuesday #35: The Secret over at San Diego Momma.
Deb’s PROMPT: Tell a secret. A true secret. About yourself.
Deb: Cool. Kind of like Post Secret, except not because you want me to post my secret on my blog for
the world both of my readers to read and know that the secret posted is my secret. And, of course, no postcards are involved. So, yeah, cool.
Readers: Rather than tell
all both of you my secret right up front, why don’t you read my story and see if you can find my secret before you get to the end. There was a pun in the last sentence, and the pun was at the end. Also? My secret has to do with buns, and buns rhyme with puns. Speaking of rhymes, my secret rhymes with Freud, and Freud would probably have a thing or two to say about someone whose puns rhyme with buns.
I have been having a hard time sitting down for extended periods of time, and going number two for the last couple of days is especially painful. The reason I can’t sit or poop comfortably rhymes with Freud. I might as well put that right out there rather than make you wait until the end. There’s that intended pun – the end, and pun rhymes with bun. The thing that rhymes with Freud is in my bun end. Are we all on the same page? If not, keep reading.
So not being one to complain about medical conditions (I have a straight face, do you?), I casually mentioned to Tom that the Preparation H in our medicine cabinet expired five years ago, and I didn’t think it was working on my end. My buns were still uncomfortable after using it for a couple of days, buns rhyming with puns, of course. And then I didn’t mention my secret that rhymes with Freud again, except for when I’d sit down or poop.
On Sunday, Laura and I were baking cookies. From scratch, with organic ingredients, and they were shaped like ducks. I’m not making any of this up. Tom left to go get a pedicure. I’m still not making any of this up. Now Tom really isn’t in it so much for the pedicure as he is the foot and neck massage that he gets simultaneously with his pedicure, by two women at once. Yes, you read that correctly, two women at once massaging my husband. I allow this because Tom allows me to
lust after blog about church bass players, Johnny Depp, Wentworth Miller, hawt toenail-removing doctors, and so forth. Tolerance Trust Tolerance and trust are two of the secrets to a successful long-term marriage, by the way, and ours has lasted thirteen years to the day. (Happy Anniversary, Honey, now excuse me. I gotta get back to writing yet another post about the intimate details of our lives.)
When Tom came home from his ménage a pedicure, he had a bag in his hand and proffered it to me. “I brought you something,” he said. I thought, “Wow! What could it be?” I was a little bit excited and quickly opened the bag. What to my wondering eyes did I see? Why it was a brand new tube of Preparation H! I was immediately touched. I really was. I felt so loved. I really did. You see, I hadn’t even asked him to go to the store for me. He thought of it all on his own. And I noticed that he even got the extra-strength kind with pain reliever. He must really love me.
But that’s not the end of the story. Oh, no, it’s not. Now I have to back up a bit. Tom injured his hamstring last week while running, and he’s got a pretty serious limp going on. In fact, after he hurt himself Laura said, “Between Daddy’s hamstring and Mommy’s toe, I don’t have a parent who can walk.” (My toe is better, by the way, and thanks to all of you who’ve asked. Seriously.) Now back to the story about the thing in my bun end that rhymes with Freud: Tom told me that when he went into the drug store, it was very crowded with shoppers. He said that he felt a little self-conscious when he had to limp to the cash register with freshly pedicured feet holding a tube of Preparation H.
(Pictures courtesy of Google Images.)