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thejoyofbeingamonkeywrench.com: the art of stirring the pot

Mount Gretna school of knocks

It was a magical summer evening in a cottage in the woods. The rain danced off the leaves. We ate our veggie dinner al fresco on the wrap around porch. We told stories. The gin flowed. Just two good friends sharing there riches with my family of four.

After the kids and men got ice cream it was determined that we educated the goose on the wealth of 80′s cinema. First was the acclaimed Xanadu staring our beloved ONJ and a faux Andy Gibb. Followed by Pretty in Pink. It seems I petered out shortly after the first scene in Annie Potts’ apartment. I think I got up to use the bathroom, caught sight of the bed I was meant to sleep in, and answered it’s come hither call to me. It’s nothing new to friends. When I’m done, the lights go out. I always figure I can deal with pleasantries in the morning. In my defense, it had gotten quite late and I had been at work very early that morning.

Later that week the goose and I stopped to visit my parents. I’m guessing inappropriate conversations came up because I can’t imagine that my darling sweet girl would have dimed my out apropos to nothing. At any rate. She tells the story of the evening from her perspective. There was a lot of singing……and at some point I called one of the characters a fucking cunt.
Awesome! Thanks doll for telling on me to my PARENTS. Lest you be shocked she didn’t use the actual words. She said “the F and C words. The big ones.”
Neither parent was particularly shocked. They made a show of giving me a disapproving look.

What can I say, I get animated. If we were going to teach the kid about the 80′s my foul mouth was a HUGE part of the era.


Do your everything hand low

Growing up, nudity wasn’t that big of a deal. We weren’t streakers or anything of that nature but I have had plenty of conversations where only one party was fully clothed. It wasn’t weird, it was normal.

My house now? Totally different story. Knowing that I have prudish kids I do my best to not flaunt my lady bits in front of my kids. Sometimes get caught nekkid outside of my room, but for the most part I know the rules. They boil down to to don’t do anything that will obviously drive your kid directly to therapy.

That said, my bedroom should be a place where I can spread my wings and fly just like the day I was born. It seems to make sense that if these are the rules negotiated by all parties over time that when you enter the inner sanctum, all bets are off….or should I say bras.

The goose, the more careful of my two kids, has taken to testing the waters with a firm, ” are you naked?” Her thinly veiled disgust palpable. The bug is a bit more of a rogue. He struts into the room, gets an eyeful, spins on one foot away from the vision burning his retinas like the sun, and usually says something along the lines of ” you are unclothed, charming.”
My sweet stubby hubs hunk always feels the need to round out the edges with a loving, “I could look at that all day long.” Whenever I’ve been caught in the buff by one of the kids.

Me? Whether it’s someone I’m related to to or someone I don’t even know, I always find myself thinking, “this old thing? Look all you like….or don’t. I’ll be amused all the same.”