Saturday, September 24, 2005
I can imagine the grin on your face as I look at what you've chosen. No, it isn't stockings and heels, but in a way, it is far worse. At least when I'm mostly nude, there's nothing to really draw attention to any one feature. In this outfit, well, it not only leaves nothing to the imagination, it accentuates the fact that I'm what some wonderful young people used to refer to as "top-heavy."
"Gee," I call down to you. "Do you think it is revealing enough?" Yes, I know I'll pay later for the wisecrack, but I just can't resist.
I dress, knowing that your guests will be arriving within the hour, and descend the stairs as though I'm wearing a ball gown, not this outfit that makes me look (and feel) like the village whore.
But you smile when I walk into the kitchen, and once again my heart melts. How can I even think of being self-conscious when you look so happy? I return to the snacks, putting some hors d'ouvres into the oven and cutting the crusts off bread for sandwiches. May as well go all out.
I place the thinly sliced tomato onto the platter with the lettuce and cheeses, and am reaching for the meat when you slap me on the ass. "Hey!"
"That's for the comment. And don't think I don't know what you're thinking." "Oh yeah? What am I thinking then?"
You sigh and pull up a chair. Calmly and slowly you explain that you understand that somewhere in the dark reaches of my mind, I'm plotting a way to stay out of sight while the men play. And then you remind me that as the hostess I am expected to greet our guests at the door, take their coats and offer them something to drink as I escort them into the game room.
I hang my head because I know you're right. In fact, you're right so often it sometimes gets annoying, not that I'll ever let you know I think so. But this time I have been thinking of myself rather than the comfort of our guests, and you are absolutely right to call me on it. I don't know what to expect when you call me over to you, but I expect to be chastised. Perhaps severely.
When I get to you, still looking at the foor, you reach out and grasp both my wrists in your hand, pulling me onto your lap. You wrap your free arm around me and say, "You've been such a good girl lately, I want to show you off." Of course now I feel even worse.I try to get up to finish the food, but you hold me there with one hand. "If it will make you feel better, you may wear your necklace tonight."
"Thank you. I always feel better when I wear it," I reply. You playfully push me off your lap and say "Well, you'd better get to it, hadn't you?"
I open my mouth to say something, and then catch sight of the clock. Where has the time gone? The first guests should be arriving in less than a quarter of an hour, and I am nowhere near ready.
I shoo you upstairs to take your shower and turn my attention back to the task at hand. The quiches go into the oven, the ice cube container is filled and more cubes are being frozen, the beer was delivered directly into the second refrigerator, so it is cold, there are bowls of chips and dip ready to go... but I know I've forgotten something.
The spinach dip. I hurridly grab the bowl from the refrigerator, rip the insides out of a loaf of sourdough bread and spoon the dip into the hole. Then I take a loaf of french bread and cut it into chunks, surrounding the bread bowl on the tray. I stop to take a breather, and to survey what has been accomplished, when the doorbell rings. The first guest has arrived, and you are still in the shower.
I walk through the living room to the front door, pause to gather my courage, and open the door.
"Gee," I call down to you. "Do you think it is revealing enough?" Yes, I know I'll pay later for the wisecrack, but I just can't resist.
I dress, knowing that your guests will be arriving within the hour, and descend the stairs as though I'm wearing a ball gown, not this outfit that makes me look (and feel) like the village whore.
But you smile when I walk into the kitchen, and once again my heart melts. How can I even think of being self-conscious when you look so happy? I return to the snacks, putting some hors d'ouvres into the oven and cutting the crusts off bread for sandwiches. May as well go all out.
I place the thinly sliced tomato onto the platter with the lettuce and cheeses, and am reaching for the meat when you slap me on the ass. "Hey!"
"That's for the comment. And don't think I don't know what you're thinking." "Oh yeah? What am I thinking then?"
You sigh and pull up a chair. Calmly and slowly you explain that you understand that somewhere in the dark reaches of my mind, I'm plotting a way to stay out of sight while the men play. And then you remind me that as the hostess I am expected to greet our guests at the door, take their coats and offer them something to drink as I escort them into the game room.
I hang my head because I know you're right. In fact, you're right so often it sometimes gets annoying, not that I'll ever let you know I think so. But this time I have been thinking of myself rather than the comfort of our guests, and you are absolutely right to call me on it. I don't know what to expect when you call me over to you, but I expect to be chastised. Perhaps severely.
When I get to you, still looking at the foor, you reach out and grasp both my wrists in your hand, pulling me onto your lap. You wrap your free arm around me and say, "You've been such a good girl lately, I want to show you off." Of course now I feel even worse.I try to get up to finish the food, but you hold me there with one hand. "If it will make you feel better, you may wear your necklace tonight."
"Thank you. I always feel better when I wear it," I reply. You playfully push me off your lap and say "Well, you'd better get to it, hadn't you?"
I open my mouth to say something, and then catch sight of the clock. Where has the time gone? The first guests should be arriving in less than a quarter of an hour, and I am nowhere near ready.
I shoo you upstairs to take your shower and turn my attention back to the task at hand. The quiches go into the oven, the ice cube container is filled and more cubes are being frozen, the beer was delivered directly into the second refrigerator, so it is cold, there are bowls of chips and dip ready to go... but I know I've forgotten something.
The spinach dip. I hurridly grab the bowl from the refrigerator, rip the insides out of a loaf of sourdough bread and spoon the dip into the hole. Then I take a loaf of french bread and cut it into chunks, surrounding the bread bowl on the tray. I stop to take a breather, and to survey what has been accomplished, when the doorbell rings. The first guest has arrived, and you are still in the shower.
I walk through the living room to the front door, pause to gather my courage, and open the door.
