Mommy is Dating

I’m not sure whether this goes in the “too fucking unbelievable to be true” or “true but un-fucking believably pathetic” category. You decide.

If you know anything about me, you know I’m a little gaga — OK, ape shit — about wine. I drool in anticipation of the 3rd Friday of every month when my wine-tasting group gathers to, um, well “taste.” I’m a firmly committed member. I treat the 3rd Friday as a religious holiday on which I worship the sweet nectar of gods and receive redemption. I’m like the poster child for the “something anonymous of winetasters.” I should have some revered position among the group, but sadly, I’m just a wine slut. Nothing more.

Our most recent tasting was, thankfully, at C&G’s home. They picked Zinfandel which, with high octane, was sure to put the group into a tizzy, but that’s beside the point. C&G have pretty much become my surrogate family. They were there when I divorced my husband. There when I shut down my business and took another job. There when I went through my first post-divorce love. And the second. They’ve had amazing tolerance for me, actually. And I absolutely adore them for it. But I digress ….

In truly remarkable, jaw-dropping fashion, I was the first to arrive. Now, I’m a quick learner. I only had to see Sideways once to understand that gum-chewing is the ultimate faux pas when drinking wine. Having left a happy hour birthday celebration (gum-chewing) for wine-tasting (non-gum chewing), I knew I was never going to hear the end of it if I was caught with the huge wad of Hubba Bubba in my mouth. I needed to stash the evidence.  And quick. For while C&G are like family, they’re like family. Relentless.

I entered their home, holding the Hubba Bubba wad in my mouth like so much unwanted proof that I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t always swallow.

Kiss to the right cheek, kiss to the left, and I quickly excused myself to the bathroom. Thinking I was being efficient (I was later chastised for not considering the septic tank … yes, this is the kind of shit that makes the sophisticated, urban world think we Oregonians still commute by horse), I decided I’d deposit said wad with my rented happy-hour cocktail. (Cocktails you can chew gum with, no problem.)

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.

Done with the tinkle biz, I get to huffing up my panties and my tights. They’re new tights, and I’m just a little chagrined at my inability to get the inseam to my crotch. Afterall, I’m not even remotely tall. I’m struggling, pulling, adjusting and breathing heavily. Working myself into a bit of a lather. I can get my tights within approximately 2 inches of my hoo-ha but no further.

And yet, ill-fitting tights are the least of my worries. In the process of struggling to get my tights up, I realize there’s some sticky matter of funk goin’ on in my drawers. Now, I’m 40 (ahem) plus. Sticky shit in a girl’s panties after 40 is a given. But really? This is some funk. So much some kind of funk that I’m mentally making notes to call the gyno Monday.

My thighs are actually sticking together as though they’ve been super-glued, and when I force them apart, the skin tacks and stretches as though it were homemade taffy. It’s hard to explain without visuals, and no way in hell am I re-enacting this one so I can take pictures. You’ll have to close your eyes. And if you’re good at imaging, I imagine you’ll be crossing your legs soon, too.

Holy shit. I cannot get over the funky goo in my panties. I mean, I know I’m perimenopausal, but this is an experience I’m not sure I could even prepare for.

And that’s when I nearly swoon with the realization.

Instead of the toilet, I have spit the three pieces of well-chewed Hubba Bubba into my fabulously hot black lace thong. The same thong that I have subsequently proceeded to pull up into my not-so-recently groomed nether region. Don’t get me wrong. I’m fastidious about grooming. But I’m also not signing up for a bite-the-lower-lip wax job if there’s no fabulously hot-n-steamy sex as a guarantee. So. Just sayin’.

It dawns on me, and dawns on me quickly, that I’m only 5 minutes ahead of the rest of the tasting crew. Thank whoever-the-fuck that C&G know more about me than I may even know about myself. And love me anyway. Or at least pretend to and convince me of the same.

I waddle out of the bathroom, down the hall, looking like a lovelorn cowboy (read “bow-legged”) and laughing hysterically at myself, because I’m thinking, “And I wonder why I’m not regularly getting laid.”

It’s a damn good thing I’m not prone to queebing, because that Hubba Bubba would have made one big-ass bubble, and we’d have to eradicate from our vocabulary ”blow job” as a nicety for fellatio. I’m not even sure the ladies in Bangkok are capable of that kind of talent.

“G,” I say. “I need some scissors.” Pause to think about the situation. “And some peanut butter.” With nary a change to the expression on her face (does she expect this from me for some reason?), G locates the scissors while C, also no change in expression, gets the peanut butter. (In my house — I have young boys — we call it “penis butter,” which is uber funny to me now.)

I waddle back to the bathroom, scissors and a small cup of peanut butter in hand, cut myself out of my thong, mourn the loss of what were surely going to be good-luck panties, and start rubbing the peanut butter into my thighs et cetera as though the peanut butter is a long lost lover.

In the process, I have just given my puss the most attention it’s had in the past three years. And higher quality (read “more stimulating”), not to mention longer-lasting, attention than when I had live-in partner, aka husband. At the same time, I’m wondering if peanut butter might be a new aphrodisiac, particularly if used while your male partner is watching sports and permanently attached to a remote control device. (That the remote is especially fallic is not lost on me.)

Guests have started to arrive. The tasting is about to commence. Having freed myself from a sticky situation (bad pun intended), I vow to never again chew gum. Or at least never at the same time as my panties are around my ankles. And then only when I’m wearing my $2 Target granny panties.  Seated around the table, swirling, sniffing and quaffing, I fidget uneasily in my seat.

Damn, I think. I really wish C&G didn’t prefer the chunky PB. But I should consider my self damned fortunate that their cats aren’t crotch-sniffers.