I came up behind my wife earlier today as she stood at the kitchen counter, unpacking several of her smaller bags crammed full of body care products that she’s brought back from her company’s annual convention. I wrapped my arm around her shapely hip, pretending to be interested in her products.
She could tell what was on my mind and said with a gleam in her eye, “They announced that they’re not going to make the body cream anymore. They’ve created a whole new line of body creams.”
Now I am interested. That cream is our favorite, um, lotion.
“We’ll have to order a case before they run out,” I smirked.
She smiles. “Yeah, the way you go through it. Problem is, though, they don’t carry a large inventory of anything.”
“I’ll send ’em a letter. ‘My friend Anita and I are desparate for more bottles of your body cream.’ ”
“Anita?”
Pregnant pause. She knows there’s a punchline coming but can’t quite discern what it might be.
“Anita Hahnjob.”
We both burst into laughter.
Later, I hear her on the phone to her 80 year old mother, recounting this scene. I feign embarrassment and we have another good laugh after she gets off the phone.
“Your mom’s not the prude you always made her out to be.”
“I know. It’s taken me awhile to figure that out.”
Cool.