I have approximately three levels of dress-uppitude. I'm sure they used to be higher, and even more exciting, but I am old, and have two children and a couple decades of gravitational pull under my belt, so to speak, and that tends to bring them down.
Oh, wait, that's breasts I was just talking about there. Sorry. I'm easily sidetracked. Old, remember. There's actually no excuse at all for my declining standards regarding my appearance. So let's get back on topic here:
Level One, I like to refer to as "I think I brushed my teeth today." Level Two we shall call, "I should at least dress as if they provide me with a paycheque." (I use that one a lot at work.) And Level Three is... "Mascara."
Oh, yes, my friends, when I put on mascara I am feeling right hot-damn saucy. Rrrowr.
Today was a Mascara day. Say it with me now:
The scene: My place; kids either asleep or out playing in the back yard. With the doors locked. (It's not really that cold out today, they'll be fine for a while.) I slide a pan of cabbage rolls in the oven, remove my lime-green cat-print apron, and set my sights on my prey: DH, here I come!
Frecklepelt - Enter Stage Left. Wait, no - Sashay Stage Left! Strikes a provocative pose in front of DH, who is slobbed out on the couch surfing the internet, yet even in his grubby sweats has exceptionally nice eyebrows, why waste them on a man, really?, but regardless has no idea what the mascara-ed temptress has in store for him. "Hi there, handsome."
DH - Click, click. Click, click. "Ungh."
Frecklepelt - Undeterred, snuggles up beside DH, wafting the warm, delicate scent of par-boiled cabbage, and bats her lush, Light Black, waterproof eyelashes. "Looks like we've got some time to ourselves, honey."
DH - Not yet entirely clued in. "Oh, yeah? Hey, is it really hot in here?"
Frecklepelt - In a slightly desperate, yet also gracefully-executed fashion, drapes herself sort of over the goddamn laptop. "I think it's just me."
DH - Lightbulb! In deep, provocative tone: "Oh yeah?"
Frecklepelt - "Yeah."
DH - "Well, you're certainly not making it any cooler."
Alright, end scene. I'm not making it any cooler? Not making it cooler? I'm in his lap and the best pick up line he can muster is an oblique pot-shot at my dorkiness? Well that's just swell. Never mind then.
But whatever, would have been tough to concentrate on being frisky with the kids pounding on the screen door trying to get in anyways.