So, I'm 36, and Vickie Weston sent me a birthday card with a man in a speedo holding a woman above his head. She wrote, "I bet this is the foreplay your parents took on the night you were conceived." It made me think, "hmmm, what did that night look like?"
Sue was mid-snacking on a handful of Bridge Mix and potato chips with True Blue 100 dangling from her lips, when her lover gave her that look. He'd had a few Utica Clubs and as he exhaled his Lucky Strike in tantalizing smoke rings, she caught that glimmer in his eye. Cynde, age two, was running around in a diaper and Sue said, "Butch, how long's this gonna take?"
The two love birds ran, as fast as they could, to the other end of their Westmoreland ranch. They slammed the door in Cynde's face and startled, she ran to her room to cry into her Holly Hobby doll. Approximately two and half minutes later, the door opened and, sweaty, her parents ran to the bathroom. Half of me began swimming ahead of the pack in true-Morris Wayne polywog style and I began eagerly looking for Green eggs or ham. There had to be a Dr. Seuss book in that dark cavern somewhere. It took the tailed wonder a couple of days, but eventually he found the lunar orb he desired and penetrated himself into his origin.
Or something like that. I know that Cynde was created upstairs at my grandparents in my mom's old bedroom one night. It was in Hamilton, New York, and apparently they had eaten their green m & m's on a Thursday. I know this.....why? Because I do. As for the story hour of my conception, I've been spared the details. Ah, but this post is a juicy worm alluring that fish, I'm sure.
Happy Birthday, mom & dad. I owe it all to you.
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