Life is filled with moments of truth, defining moments that transcend one point in time to stay with us forever. There are the big ones, like high school or college graduation, marriage proposals and weddings, the birth of a child. Then there are the little ones, summer days spent with your best friend, or a silly, private joke that you and a loved one share. It’s just that moment that you can’t forget. During many of these defining moments, I have told myself, I have see/heard it all. Then, something comes along that redefines these memorable occasions, and reminds me that there is so much absurdity, plain ol’ freakiness, left in the world for me to experience.
The holidays always bring calls from my friends and loved ones, and as much as we promise to stay in touch throughout the year, it seems that our connectedness manifests itself primarily in the November to January timeframe. Then we all drop off the face of the earth and resurface the following holiday season. Of course there are those one or two friends that stay in touch all year, either because they really love you or they need to borrow money. At any rate, one of my friends, I will call her Gina, is of the let’s-stay-in-touch-all-the-time variety. She calls to talk about anything and everything. We reminisce about good times we’ve had and bad times we’ve caused others to have, and we’re very close so nothing is off-limits and I’m always glad to hear from her. But her most recent call was out of the ordinary, even for Gina.
It started off innocently enough. She called to tell me about her plans for the holidays and what was happening in her job as a real estate agent. Since I work in the financial services industry, I was asking her how the depressed market was impacting her work. She admitted it was rough, but then told me that she was doing some side work in sales.
“When I come to visit you guys in North Carolina, invite some of your friends and I’ll do a Passion Party for you.”
Oh, that’s okay. I saw the movie but I’m not sure I want to have a screening at my house.
“I’m not talking about ‘The Passion of the Christ’, I mean a PASSION PARTY.”
Hmmm, passion. Y’know, unless it involves George Clooney and lots of Kendall Jackson, I’m not sure I’m interested. What is it, anyway?
“I hold shows in people’s homes and present and sell sex toys and erotic items. It’ll be great fun!”
WHAT?! You mean like a Tupperware party for skanks?!
Of course she went on to explain that it’s not like that at all. And she’s right. How many times have you ever seen a vibrator at a Tupperware party? As I listened to her enraptured descriptions of the items that she sells, I sank into disbelief. When had Gina turned into Jezebel? Simply put, I was flabbergasted!
“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” she purred.
Look, I’m no prude. I am married and have a child, and being a reasonably intelligent sort, I am well aware of what transpired for me to get pregnant and have a child. I even remember when the moment occurred. Jerry and I were remodeling the downstairs bedroom and let’s face it, some things ARE more fun than watching paint dry. But googly-moogly, sex toys? I got myself a husband so I would never have to resort to that. There are certain things that I expect my husband to do for me, like taking out the trash, anything relating to plumbing or automotive work, and, well, nooky! Besides, I don’t want any electrical gadgetry anywhere NEAR my hoohah! My nerves are just not that strong.
“Well haven’t you noticed that now that you and Jerry have a child, well, your intimacy level and frequency have changed?”
Sure! When you have a child, or children, sex takes more planning and strategizing than the Normandy Invasion. And it’s faster and more fleeting than the series ‘Cop Rock.’ But that’s not the point. We’re together. Granted we usually have to pencil each other in for times when Jenda is in daycare, or if the mood strikes and she isn’t tired, we turn to children’s Benadryl instead of Viagra. Who cares, we make it work. And no electrodes are involved. Just the way nature intended it!
“Well I want to send you a catalogue. I think you’ll especially like ‘The Rabbit’, page 4.”
Nope. No electronic gadgets, and ESPECIALLY no bestiality. And for God’s sake, don’t send me a catalogue. I live in a small town, and I sure as hell don’t want my mailman to see that and get the wrong idea about me. I know that dogs are supposed to chase mailmen, but I don’t want him thinking that I would dry hump his leg.
So the good news is, so far, no catalogue, and no weird glances from the mailman. I have no plans on hosting a Passion Party, unless it’s to share a glass of Kendall Jackson, about which I am passionate, with friends that I love (but not in THAT way!) And no way am I putting any of those products on this year’s Christmas list, nor will I be giving any for gifts.
I mean, talk about ‘Ho, Ho, Ho!’