Jenny McCarthy - who, if you haven't heard is actually quoted on the back of my book saying it's "Hysterical" - had a contest on her blog just before Valentine's Day.
It was called "The Sexy, Hot Contest" and I know, I know - I should have probably won it based solely on the title ALONE but I didn't.
Here were the rules:
"I want to hear all about your sexiest, steamiest kitchen stories. The hotter the better (but please, keep it clean!). Let’s start the foreplay early this year!"
You had to send in a story about something sexy that happened in your kitchen so, well, I sent in this:
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The following story took place back when I was married.
"Honey, I'm home!" I yelled, as I entered the house from the garage.
I was greeted with nothing but silence.
"Honey?" I waited. "Kids?"
Nothing.
The dog bounded around the corner to greet me. She was a good dog, but very jumpy.
"Where is everyone, Sophie?" I asked.
Silence.
The dog didn't speak much.
I put my briefcase down and entered the kitchen. A small, yellow note sat on the island.
It read:
"Kids are at my mom's. Stay where you are."
Um. Okay.
I kicked off my sneakers and took off my coat and flung it over the kitchen chair as I normally did. I was thumbing through the 47 bills from Macy's and Lord & Taylor and Coach, "WE HAVE A COACH CHARGE?!" when I heard her coming down the steps.
My wife emerged from around the corner of the stairs.
Yowza.
There she was. Standing there, wearing flannel "New England Patriot" pajama bottoms and nothing on top but the smile on her face and a matching flannel pajama top that brought out the highlights in her hair curlers.
"You like what you see?"
"Of course," I said. "I love the Patriots."
She sauntered over, and I patted me on the head and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
"WHAT HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU?" I said. "You're INSATIABLE today!"
I was always jealous when I heard the other married men talk about having relations with their wives after the honeymoon and the couple of times when trying to have children, but I'd never believed it. I was giddy.
"Sit down. Dinner is almost ready."
DINNER?
Was my wife..making...DINNER? I felt like I was in a dream. A whirlwind of emotions came over me.
"Should I take my Viagra now or wait?" I thought. Then I decided to wait. There was a $50 co-pay for Viagra and I'd wasted far too many of them on false alarms already.
"So..what are you making me?"
"You'll see," she said. But I could see the opened bag of a frozen Bertolli pasta meal on top of the trash when she opened it to throw away the bag the salad came in. WOW. She has gone way overboard tonight.
I watched as she set the timer for the frozen meal which would be ready in 9 minutes, according to manufacturer's instructions.
"Screw the instructions," I said. I reached over her, gently, and shut the timer off. "Let's wing it tonight."
"Oh," she murmured.
We stared at each other, inches apart, and almost touched once. I feel dirty even just typing it. I KNEW her reading "50 Shades of Grey" would FINALLY have some payoff!! Thank you, terrible literature book! Thank you!!
"It's...it's sticking," she said.
"Oh. I know it is" I replied with a wink.
"The pasta," she said. "It's sticking to the pan."
"I know. That's what I meant."
She shut the stove off, and I reached up and took out the Elmo plates because everything was still in the dishwasher and it hadn't been run yet. I poured us each a cold glass of apple juice and set the table.
"Whoa." I said, as I looked at the place settings. "You got Scott brand paper napkins? Honey. You've gone way overboard. What's the occasion?"
She looked up from me, took off her oven mitts and said, "It's Valentine's Day. I thought I'd do something special."
"OH." I said, as I put the Viagra back in my pocket. "It is? Aw, crap."
And that's how I ended up with 3rd degree burns from Bertolli pasta.
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I didn't win.
Figures.
