I need to write another post, and I've got one brewing like a hearty bowel movement after a Taco Bell binge, but for now, I have to state that I'm shamelessly, wholeheartedly in love with this song right now...
So much so that I've been bouncing around the house singing it and forcing my daughter and husband to dance with me. Needless to say, 2 of the 3 members of this household are tired of it. Apparently I'm a 15 year old inside.
Why is the official musical instrument of cheesy porn the saxophone? I mean, really. Who was sitting around the Big Meeting Table at the Pornography Summit and decided, "You know what puts me in the mood? Brass woodwinds. Saxophone man, whoo, that revs my engines!"
Personally, I think the trombone is sexy. The trombone exudes emotion and passion. And it's just downright fun to play, not to mention one's mouth position on it is much more conducive to sexual innuendos than the saxophone, which, from my experience in high school pep band (oh yes, that's right, don't hate), involves teeth in very uncomfortable positions.
Though as far as the sexiest members of the high school marching band went, the drummers were always the hottest, albeit the stupidest. It's like they randomly picked out the 10 worst ADHD cases in the class, gave them a snare drum and drumsticks, and said, "Have at it." Although, back to the saxophone, my high school crush played the saxophone, until he dropped out freshman year. But up til then... whoo buddy, I liked watching the saxophone section.
I digress.
Anyway. I have been pondering the intricacies of porn lately because my husband seems to be fascinated with it. By "fascinated," I mean, he turns on Cinemax, hoping I'll get the hint, when all I want to do is lay and read my book and drift off to sleep, and instead of harrumphing back to his side of the bed and turning on Speed channel, he falls asleep and leaves the porn on. So I'm listening to bad, overdramaticized sex -- complete with, that's right, the saxophone, ohhh the saxophone -- while I'm otherwise content reading my snarky sarcastic book dujour.
I'm really regretting agreeing to the Cinemax package. Sure, I knew what I was getting into, but I didn't realize that by wanting to see the best new movie releases on my satellite, I was also signing up for my husband turning it on, then edging toward me and poking at me while excitedly grunting, "Enh? Enh?" And as if it's not bad enough that it's constantly on from about 11 pm on, he Tivo's it. My current Tivo line up includes Desperate Housewives, Handy Manny, Little Einsteins, and Co-Ed Confidential. God help us all that first time I'm trying to put on an episode of Tivo'd Imagination Movers for tantrumming Punky and accidentally turn on Passion Cove. We may be having the "Where Babies Come From" speech way sooner than anticipated. Or she'll just get really hungry. I don't know. I haven't thought this far ahead in terms of "important talks" with Punk, since our most important talks right now involve me chasing her while yelling, "No no no, do not LICK the electrical outlets!"
(And seriously -- what is it with toddlers and death wishes? I swear to god every day, every hour, I'm saving Punky from an all-new potentially self-mutilating, debilitating injury.)
I can appreciate the need for porn in the bedroom; I've still been pretty averse to sex ever since I pushed 7 lbs., 7 oz. of child out of my vagina. So intervention is understandable, but it's hard to put yourself in the mood after your toddler gets into the toy box on the nightstand. One minute, your kid is playing with her stuffed puppy on the bedroom floor while you're getting dressed. You turn around and next thing you know she's beating herself in the head with a vibrator.
I mean, that happens to everyone... right?
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