Foreplay in the Cellar

The basement waterproofers are coming tomorrow, and nothing.  I mean NOTHING. keeps the magic alive in your marriage like getting a basement ready for waterproofing.

I saunter down the stairs in my stained yoga pants.  These are the sexy ones that give me camel toe.  I pair that with a t-shirt that is just short enough that whenever I lift my arms, it slides up over my muffin top like a pat of hot dairy butter.  Current Husband is wearing a ripped t-shirt over his fast food physique with a pair of gray sweats.  One of the legs of said sweats is tucked into the top of his tube sock.  We look at each other with that knowing glance that says, "WHAT!?!?"

We begin to work.  The basement is all dank and dusty, probably the same conditions in which 90% of all porn films are made.  We take apart the ping pong table, gazing at each other in that loving way couples do when they've been together for 20 years and have moved all kinds of heavy furniture.  He looks at me as Edward would gaze at Bella, and says, "There's no fucking way this is going up the stairs."   I flutter my eyelids and say, "Turn it upside down, LIKE I TOLD YOU THE FIRST TIME!"  He pushes the base of the table back down the stairs and says, "I hate this piece of shit."  My voice goes up an octave as I exclaim, "Don't break it!"  It's one of those moments when you know you are going to make sweet, sweet basement moving love.

He unhooks the washer and dryer, and yells "Goddammit!" and I rush to his sexy side and I immediately get wet.  Wet because he hasn't turned the water all the way off and there is cold water spraying all over us.  We fight against the surge of passion we are both feeling, and start beating the faucet mercilessly, likely picturing the others' face on the knob as we hit it over and over and over again.  Finally, the water stops, just before we decide to make another baby.  Thank GOD the water stopped.

We lovingly speak to the children, saying things like, "Where do you think YOU'RE going?  This isn't done yet!" and "That's enough attitude young lady!" and "Is the ironing board going to walk itself upstairs?"  We form a joyous line of family love, marching back and forth to the garage, carrying our treasures, like a broken Kinectx set, a broken Nerf gun, an old Sega Genesis, Christmas decorations, and meaningful future family heirloom metal shelving units.

George the Superpet, never one to be left out, has apparently vomited up a lump of grass on the rug.  Of course, there is only one rug in a basement that is otherwise tiled, but the rug seemed like the obvious place to puke.  I'm sure he stood in the basement for five solid minutes, dry heaving and working that bale of grass up, and said to himself (in dog language) "The rug.  It's clearly the optimum puking spot down here."  I clean the puke, thinking warm thoughts about George, and how lucky I am to own this particular 106 pound omnivore.

CH asks me to help him move the refrigerator, but what he is really saying is, "Our love is so powerful that it moves appliances."  We move it, like we move mountains together, and CH stops and yells, "I love you!" No, wait.  He actually yells, "Swing it out to the left, you're hitting the ductwork!  Your OTHER left!" and I stop and gesture to him my appreciation of his directing me.

We look at each other with a sheen of sweat on our foreheads, panting slightly.  Oh yes.  This is what Golden Anniversaries are made of.  Meet me upstairs in the bedroom, my Prince.  I'll be taking an Aleve and figuring how to hold the pillow over your face until you quit kicking.

And then I shall play ping pong.