Prudish Swinger?

"I thought you a prude when I first started working here. You are actually funny. It is always the quiet ones."

This was an e-mail response to me from one of my younger co-workers. And by younger I mean decades. He forwarded an e-mail joke and I just happened to respond to it. As often occurs with e-mail and me - a false sense of comfort with my audience led me to pepper my response with words such as "rack" "hoot" "your momma" and "boomshakalakka". Not necessarily in that order, either.

And what do I care that I give off the prude vibe to people I don't know? Because according to my own mother, the girls are usually bursting out of my shirts so much that I can only be considered a trollop by strangers. Although I have to consider that Mom's POV is shot through Formerly Amish Lenses. While she's lightened up a bit over the years, women's boobs, especially mine, seem to remain as classified in 1950s as an unspeakable evil while the toaster oven and microwave are now perfectly ok to use and have out in the open.

And then I remembered that at our last law firm, Mr. Zoom and I were actually accused of being swingers due to our no holds barred ability to give each other a heaping pile of sh*t and/or laugh at things most immature. Swingers we are not. Easily amused, we are.

I'll take prude over swinger, I guess.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to ditch my acrylic nails. I have had them for almost 10 years, and I'm totally over it. I don't like getting up every other Saturday and having an appointment I have to keep. I hate working around weekend travel/parties/weddings, etc. And quite honestly, the pink and white French manicure thing I had going on was starting to look a lot more bad porny than I thought they should. There's good porny - cheesy and fun, and bad porny - outdated and sad.

Everyone's heard of butt dialing, right? Cell phones have a lock now to prevent that. You know who else needs to make a protective lock? T.V. remote control companies. Mr. Zoom tries to watch t.v. and innocently sets the remote down. Predictably, I sit on the remote, roll onto it, or it magically attaches to my bum and then the channel surfing really begins. It is such a regular occurrence that last night when the hockey game flickered out I jumped up and shouted "WHAT?? AM I SITTING ON THE REMOTE AGAIN??!!" Then my eyes searched out and rested on the remote. Safely stored on the arm of the couch next to Mr. Zoom. Far away from my butt. The cable had hiccupped. And Mr. Zoom was now wearing the wide eyed terror face that he breaks out whenever I've launched an accusatory question/statement/rhetorical gem at him without warning. Sort of like having someone run into the room behind you, crashing cymbals over your head and then running away.

This is a day early, but - HAPPY VDAY MR. ZOOM! I'll try and keep my ass-cheeks off the remote for like, a whole day. Starting tomorrow.