Olly, olly oxen free!
Glenwood Springs, CO Colorado
“Honey? Where are you?” I screamed to the upstairs. “I need you to help me with something!”
There was no response.
“I need you to help me pick out an outfit and some erotic toys from the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog that I want for my birthday!” I continued.
This, of course, was simply a ploy to get some kind of response from him to so that I could lure him down to pick up the dog crap in the yard. …
And it worked because a few minutes later I got a muffled response.
I trekked up the stairs and stood in the doorway of our bedroom and stared at the bed.
“I know you’re under there,” I said, looking at the big white comforter which topped the blue plaid flannel sheets. “I heard you make a noise.”
Then I saw a small movement under the comforter.
My mother had recently sent us a king-sized set of blue-plaid flannel sheets that came with matching blue-plaid pajama bottoms for each of us. I had put the sheets on the bed along with some huge fluffy comforters with white cotton coverlets. For some reason, Husband-Head thinks that if he wears his blue-plaid flannel PJ bottoms to match the sheets and a white tank top to match the comforter he’s, like, camouflage man and I’ll never be able to see him hiding in the bed … that and the fact that he was softly humming “Secret … AGENT Man!” under his breath …
“Ollie, Ollie in-come-free!” I screamed into Husband-Head’s ear from the old Hide and Seek game we used to play when we were kids.
“NO!” Husband-Head protested, finally throwing off the blanket. “You can’t see me! Can’t you see I’m camouflaged? Me and my pajamas blend right in with the bed. You have no idea that I’m still sleeping!”
“Besides,” he pointed out. “The phrase is ‘Olly, Olly OXEN free!”
But if I were you, pal, I’d put on my brown sweat pants because now you need to blend in with the dog stuff in the backyard. …
This all happened on a recent weekend when I, sob, turned another year older, which explains a number of things, including nuclear body heat in the bedroom (generated from out-of-control hormones). However, I have resolved not to complain about getting older as it is clearly better than the alternative. …
“What do you want for your birthday?” my younger sister asked as my birthday drew closer.
“I dunno,” I shrugged. “A cold pack for my face? A winning Lotto ticket would be cool. Or perhaps an all-expense paid trip to the Bahamas might do the trick.” But basically, whatever the family member feels like getting you has always been the rule in our family. …
“I was thinking more along the lines of a manicure or pedicure,” my sister suggested. “Or how about one of those ANTI-AGING facials?” she said, before howling in laughter.
Yes, that is very funny. Extremely humorous. Ha. Ha.
But in the end, that is what I got.
“I’m on my way to the salon!” I yelled to Husband-Head that morning before I left.
“Isn’t it a little early?” he said with trepidation.
“I said the SALON … not the SALOON!” I clarified. “I’m going to get an anti-aging facial!”
I quickly shut the door before I could hear him laugh. …
It had been a long time since I’d had an hour-long facial, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. I remember in younger years where they would pick at all your facial acne and you looked like something out of a scary movie when they were done.
Thankfully at my age, they don’t need to pick at blemishes – they simply hand you a short little apron and tell you to undress to your “comfort level.”
Well my comfort level was OK with removing my top and putting on the apron, but removing my pants did not seem necessary for a facial. …
The salon session felt wonderful as the young woman slathered my face with all kinds of creams and solutions that were supposed to make me look years longer.
At least I think that’s what they were supposed to do – how would I know? I fell sound asleep.
“Wow, you were out in the first half hour,” the nice facial girl said.
Yeah, well anybody rubbing any part of my body for an hour will do that to me…
When I got home, I told Husband-Head how wonderful the facial had felt.
“Well what do you want me to get for your birthday?” he badgered.
I thought for a moment.
“A new set of sheets for the bed,” I decided. “Those flannel sheets are too hot.”
Husband-Head looked horrified.
“How am I going to hide?” he asked. “Then my PJs won’t match the sheets anymore!”
Ollie, Ollie oxen free!
Heidi Rice is a reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her website at http://www.heidirice.com to read more columns or purchase her book collection of columns, “Skully Says Shut It!”
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