Turn-on's

It's not every day that I come to tears, but it is more often than I would like. Often, it can be linked to my menstrual cycle, but as I approaced 40, this got harder and harder to nail down. Cycles became long, then short, then disappeared, then raged back with a vengeance. I realized in the past year that now they can be linked not only to the premenstrual time slot of a week or so before, but also to the preovulation period of 3 or so days as well. Imagine my dismay!

Well, today must be one of those days.

It was my daughters' 6th birthday party. It was a cute foray into the world of Glamour with a capital G...we went to a salon called "Glitzy" and had 4 of her closest friends join us, and one little 4 year old tart, Tess, her sister. I swallowed any common sense I may have had over the fact that I am unemployed at the moment, and that as we sit here, my Master Card balance is slowly climbing, incrementally into a territory I have never been in my life. I sprang for the whole schmear...up-do's, nails, 4 different crafts to keep them occupied, a bouncy soundtrack on the system to keep them perky, and lots and lots of glitter. I made my own raging blue buttercream to mimic the sea under that pain-in-the-ass princess that won't go out of my life, Ariel. I brought waters and juice boxes and Smartfood and pretzels. I oo'd and ahh'd myself silly at every fantastical curl on every little head. I profusely thanked the two stylists even though for two hours work, they've made more moola than I have in a month of collecting unemployment.

And now I am home. The dishes are done, the crafts put away, the glittery detritus at the bottom of my shopping bags dumped out. My 4 year old is yelping happily in the living room while playing with the balloons. But where is the birthday girl? Here's the weepy part. And I am not sure why, except that I think it has to do with her father, my dear husband. He came to the party. He methodically cut and manipulated several princess choker necklaces and even applied a few tattoo's. He picked up the balloons and brought the food in for me. But when the time came to leave, he seized the opportunity to take home one of the party-goers along with Brooke. I was sent home with the crying 4 year old, and felt slightly cast out as a result. I unloaded the car, and even carried in the coffee table that we brought along for craft space.

It's now 90 minutes later. I know exactly where he is. He is having a beer with the dad. Brooke and her friend are probably out at the zipline, giggling carefree as their up-do's come unraveled. Mud is under their fingers and they are really actually acting their age now. John is inside, head back, laughing about some silly anecdote, eating pretzels and thinking nothing of me waddling through the living room with a coffee table on my hip.

And when he does come home, he'll whip up a stir-fry, tell us all we are beautiful and then fall asleep on the couch. We will have exchanged about 20 sentences today, and then after we pull the covers up on ourselves at 11 pm or thereabouts, his stiffness will poke me in the thigh and I will think "eeew". He will need me too. Like the kids need me, and the dog needs me and the bills need me and my boss needs me and the school needs me and my mom needs me. Like the floor needs mopping, the car needs and oil change, the committee needs a report and the tortoise needs new bedding. And turned on, I will NOT be. Tired. Used up. Kind of sad. Wishing that simple stiff thing could rouse something in me that smacks of pleasure.

And I will give in. And he will feel better.

And after we clean up, and I put my pj's back on because I am always cold, and we embrace, I'll say "so, you wanna talk?". Kind of a joke, being that it is so late now. Kind of a test, because I just gave you what you needed, now will you give me what I need? Kind of a jab, because perhaps in a few years when he actually realizes what that means, that he will remember I asked.

That would be a turn-on.