Wishing He Had Remembered a Muzzle

It's not all doom and gloom around these parts while I sit on my ass and wait for my future to be determined by a group of soul sucking zombies er, government bureaucrats. In an active attempt to avoid the looming emotional crisis that October represents for our family, the hubs and I went out and did something we've never done before.

We hired a hooker.

Kidding. In his dreams. Actually, his dreams would consist more of the sexy (and now slightly knocked up) Halle Berry, me and a can of whip cream. Or more likely, Halle Berry, the whip cream and me locked in the basement, pounding on the door, screaming to get out.

No, no hooker. However, we went to see our friendly, neighbourhood travel agent. All right, so we just randomly picked one out of the phone book, but turned out, she WAS friendly. Just not in our neighbourhood. (To be fair, our neighbourhood consists primarily of a bunch of trees, a few bears, some moose and the odd hillbilly.)

It must have been Boo's lucky day. Our agent was hot. He got even luckier when her and I hit it off immediately. I never once got mad at him over his clumsy attempts at flirting or his obvious attempts to check out her rack.

Okay, so I was checking out her cleavage as well, but it was impressive. I was in the midst of developing a serious case of boob envy.


After spending some time oogling like a pair of perverts discussing foreign travel, weather patterns and just how shallow our pockets really are, Boo and I held hands and took the plunge. We handed over our credit card and booked our very first ever, vacation. Thousands of dollars later, we had our pool chaises reserved on a stretch of white sandy beach overlooking the warm waves of a blue ocean. I think I saw my travel agent rubbing her hands together with glee as she rang in our card when she thought we weren't looking.

How much do you think I'd have to drink to run naked down the beach?

At one point, the excitement and the pot of coffee I ingested, got the better of me. I excused myself to find my way to the loo, looking at all the travel posters and imagining what life would be like if I was born closer to the equator. (I have to say, I think I'd miss the snow and the forgiving nature of my winter wardrobe.)

When I sat back down in the office, next to my hubs, he looked mighty pleased with himself. Worried he might have said something to embarrass me himself, I looked to the travel agent, then back to him and asked what's up with the cheshire grin.

"I booked us first class, baby!" He was bursting at the seams with pride and excitement.

"Oh. Great. What does that mean, exactly, other than spending more of our children's college funds?" I inquired.

"Well," started our lovely, well-endowed travel lady, "it simply means that your flight will be more comfortable. Which is important since a vacation starts with the flight."

"Great. Why will my flight be more comfortable? Do I get mandatory foot rubs by hot Swedish airline employees while a staff of scantily clad men and women feed me hand peeled grapes?" A girl can dream, can't she?

"No. It just means your seat is bigger. And you get free juice." Funny, she avoided making eye contact with me when she let me down.

"What? Bigger seat? Are you implying something? Is this because you saw the size of my derriere when I went to the bathroom? Because I'm bloated. It's almost that time of the month. It's just water weight!"

My darling hubs was now cowering in his seat, wishing I would shut the fuck up. Our lovely travel agent looked like she had just walked in on her mommy giving Santa a holiday treat and she hastily tried to undo the damage.

"Of course not! I just meant bigger seats mean -"

"Bigger asses can fit in them." I couldn't help it. Boo shot me a murderous look, silently ordering me to be nice to the lady with the nice boobies.

"No, no!" she sputtered as she looked around in vain, worried her boss might have overheard her call me a lard ass and praying for some divine intervention. "I didn't mean that at all. Your bottom is lovely. Er, I mean, it is quite small and could fit into any seat comfortably. I just thought your husband might be more comfortable in the larger seat." She finished the sentence with a small sigh and looked like she dodged a bullet.

"Oh, in that case, I agree. He does have a rather large ass. Don't you, honey?" I leaned over to pat his hand.

Funny, he wasn't amused. Muttering something about how he could dress me up, but couldn't take me out, he apologized to the agent for my behaviour and explained how I had forgotten the medication that makes me normal that morning.

The poor lady. She couldn't decide if she was amused or confused by the time Boo and I had signed our lives away and reached for our coats.

Let the good times roll. You see, the vacation doesn't start with the flight, my dear. It starts with tormenting the delicious travel agent and seeing how many times you can make your husband squirm with embarrassment and wish he had never fallen for my mesmerizing charms.

It only gets better from here.