Enough with those pictures staring me in the face every time I bring my blog list up to read other people's stuff today. As attractive as I am with a big blue penis in my face, I'd rather not see that. Like ever. It does remind me of a funny story though.
When Brian and I were first living together, way back when the earth's crust was still cool and I hadn't yet turned fiscally conservative, a friend of ours was getting rid of a waterbed and asked if we wanted to buy it. Having never owned one, I said sure. I was mostly excited about the fact it had one of those cheesy 80's built-in bookshelf headboards. Give me something with a bookshelf on it and I'm yours 4-ever. Fifty bucks - a real bargain, considering our friend hauled it over and helped Brian set it up.
We lived in a two-story apartment at the time and Brian asked me to call the apartment managers to make sure we were allowed to have the bed in a second story bedroom. He's a pretty logical person and figured with a two-thousand pound hulking beast of a piece of furniture, we should play it safe. The day our friend arrived with the bed, Brian thought of it again and asked if I'd called the front office. I lied and said I had. I'm not proud, okay? I was all excited about my new bed! But either way, in it went, up it filled and we happily settled down for our first night of aquafied fun. Until I saw noticed something. That bookshelf headboard? Had a fucking MIRROR on it. Don't ask me how I didn't notice that before, but I've never claimed to be Captain Observant, okay? It certainly was easy to notice when it was reflecting white asses in the air. I made a mental note right then to fill the headboard with books first thing in the morning. There would be no more peepshows after that night, thank you.
Let's put it this way. I am exhibitionist-opposite. I could not cut it for a career in porn. (At least not in front of the camera. I could write and direct the hell out of one of those things; it's called a PLOT, assholes, look into it!) I do not gaze lovingly at my naked reflection, and even though Alanis says we all should, I don't walk around naked in my living room. I don't EVER again wish to see myself in flagrante delicto. That's Latin for Ukingfay. And that's Pig Latin for you-know-whattay. That night the best idea I could think of was to indicate a change of positions was necessary. Tout de suite. (What's with all these weird words today?)
That's not the end of the waterbed saga.
A few nights later, we had a party. Several of our friends had come from out of town and were spending the weekend with us. I drank hundreds of rum and Cokes and had a rip-roaring good time. After everyone who was leaving left and everyone who was staying passed out, we eventually wandered upstairs. We got into bed and all of a sudden it hit me: two of my very close friends were sleeping right below us on the living room futon. In my drunken state I started freaking out, convinced the bed was going to crash through the floor and squash them dead. At this point, Brian was laughing his ass off at me while also attempting to calm me down. Finally he reminded me the apartment people wouldn't have let us put the bed upstairs if it was dangerous. And of course this is when I had to admit my ugly deceit. Lucky for me I have a really laid-back and forgiving man, but even though he forgave me for lying, he refused to join me to sleep in the walk-in closet no matter how much I pleaded and begged.
Moral of this story? Waterbeds are stupid.