You Smell Like Old

I'm one blue-haired beehive away from officially being an old lady.

For two weeks now I have been sneezing, blubbering, snotting and hacking up my lung matter - the latter of which keeps me up at night. I've tried cough syrup with codeine and gargling salt water and sprite with crackers. Nothing helped with the cough. I would HORNK and sputter and gag and - unfortunately - toss my tummy contents with such force it would leave me with a smattering of bloody freckles to match my light brown ones.

And then - it happened.

It started innocently enough. I plugged in my humidifier and inserted one small mentholated pad to circulate in the air. The relief wasn't instantaneous but it was still calming. My throat still tingled and my head still hurt - but the smell - the soothing vapors - was nice. So nice.

And then - I got some Vick's Vapor Rub. The gooey mentholated syrup mocked me from its blue jar with striking green wrapper. I knew that if I smeared even one finger-full of the stuff - I'd be a goner. I'd be addicted.

Like a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat salad bar (trust me - I was a FAT kid - and I LOVED me some salad!!!) I was up to my elbows in Vick's best within minutes. The burn and the vapors lulled me into a sleep-induced haze that not even the foul-tasting codeine-laced medicine could do.

I tried to hide my new shame from Harry. Tried to not let him see my nightly ritual of mentholated humidifier coupled with a thin sheen of Vapor Rub on my chesty regions. But I was too tired Sunday night - and I slipped.

Actually when he came back from fetching me my fourth bottle of water for the day I was in bed, covers pulled up to my navel, topless. For one moment he seemed happy - like Christmas came early - and with a twin - but that eye twinkle quickly faded when I held out one chubby hand - clutching the Vick's.

"Help me?" I said, coughing pathetically for emphasis.

"Sure." He had the good grace to pretend to be amused by my antics.

"Avoid the girly bits," I said and laid back with my eyes shut. I waited for the cool tingle of the eucalyptus and menthol vapors to reach my assaulted sinuses.

"Hey - this stuff looks like my-"

"Shut up," I interrupted. "Don't make this perverted. Ahhhh yes. Avoid the nipples. Ahhhhh." I sighed again and laid back, chest glistening, nose red and spittle still hanging from my chin from my last coughing fit.

"Wanna do it?" I asked. Mostly to see what he'd say.

He slowly capped the heaven-sent scented rub and added it to the collection of hard candy, cough drips, tums and water bottles that litter my bedside table.

"Not even a little," he said.

"Oh thank God..." I muttered and rolled over to have sweet, sweet mentholated tinted dreams.

Don't be a Dick

We just got back home from a week spent at Myrtle Beach, SC. One morning we even went to the beach. I ventured out to my ankles - squealed - and then ran back to the safety of my thirty dollar rented blue lounge chairs and umbrella. Harry was braver. He stayed in and jumped into the high, hurricane-like waves and even body surfed a few into the seashell-strewn shore. Unfortunately, while in the water - he got attacked by a sea creature.

No, not a jellyfish.

Or a shark.

Or even a curious fish--with teeth.

Later, when in the shower, it turned out that quite a few of the tiny sharp shells from the shore made it into the "safety net" of his swimtrunks. Once there, they decided to attack whatever tender flesh they came in contact with. I stared in horror as he got in the glass-walled shower, removed his trunks - and half a pound of shells fell out.

I went to lay on the bed while he worked at getting all the misplaced sea bits into one corner.

"I think I'm injured," he said a few minutes later when he emerged, wrinkly and red from the steam.

"What? Oh no - where?" I was concerned - we still had two days of hardcore shopping to do at the surrounding Tanger Outlets.

"On my penis."

"Oh no - lemmie look." Now, when one is married, or even just in a committed relationship - these requests seem less odd. I do not recommend trying this on a first through fifth date.

But he obliged and laid down on the bed. I carefully examined the specimen to look for anything unusual and, sure enough, a small scratch was at the very top.

"Okay," I said, getting a good look at the cut to make sure no shell remained. "I think it's fine it's just a little pri-" I stopped as I realized what I was going to say was not what I meant to say nor should any woman say while holding a man's pride in her hand.

"It's fine," I tried to cover.

"No, what were you going to say?" Concern filled his voice and I got the giggles. Again, not something one should do when looking at their mate's manparts.

"Holly!"

"Fine," I said carefully covering him with the white towel. "I was going to say that it just looks like a little prick - and that's all. But I knew you'd take it wrong."

He stared at me, face turning red, trying not to laugh.

"A little prick, huh?" he said. "THAT'S what you're going to say to me?" He was pretending to be affronted so I sat back on the bed, crossed my arms and huffed.

"Yes. And don't take that the wrong way," I said.

"Noooooooo," he said sarcastically. "I would NEVER take that the wrong way."

And he hasn't. Not even when he repeats it - all the time - at random times - especially on the way home.

"Should we turn here?" he'd ask.

"Sure - I trust you," I'd say, not looking up from my magazine.

"Are you sure - cuz apparently I have a little prick..."

Luckily his cut has healed nicely on his member. Though if he doesn't quit reminding me of my misspoken concern - he may have far worse injuries to be concerned about...