Archive for the ‘naked’ Category

Area 51… Or Maybe Just My Bathroom

In Abductions, Aliens, Chicktography, Dads, daughters, dresses, Footwear, Humor, husbands, Investigations, Laundry, life, love, Men, naked, Parents, Sandals, shoes, UFOs, Women on November 19, 2015 at 5:35 pm

Every home in America contends with laundry. A home with six permanent and two part-time residents generates quite a bit of it. When five of the six permanent residents are girls, two of whom are teenagers, the home tends to generate the average American family’s weekly laundry allotment in about sixteen hours. For those of you who may not be familiar with teenage girl wardrobe selection protocols, please allow me to give you a brief summery of the manual.

Actually, the previous statement was a lie. I cannot tell you what is contained within the pages of this manual, as I have never seen it. It is a strictly guarded secret in the female realm, much like their special language. The language where the wife speaks the words, “I am so thirsty,” which could be translated into “Honey, I would like you to bring me something to drink,” or perhaps, “I am so tired of summer. I can’t wait for fall time,” or “Does anybody know where I sat down my glass of water?” or it could mean, “I am so thirsty”. Who knows? Not me. All I know is when my wife speaks in this way, there is a 70% chance I will interpret her meaning incorrectly.

Why? Because I have never seen this manual containing this language, rules, interpretations, addendums, or in this case, dismissed wardrobe selection protocols, that’s why. And even if I did stumble across one, it would take a special decoder ring in order to actually read what was printed on the pages inside. Therefore all I can do is give you my assumptions based on observations I have witnessed over the last several years.

In the world of the teenage girl, the mere consideration of wearing an outfit for the day deems the outfit mentally soiled, thus requiring a laundering service. Basically, thinking about wearing something makes it dirty. And apparently, prepubescent girls have a condensed but similar manual.

In the elementary version of this textbook there is a different set of clothing protocols. While there seems to be nothing specifically about wardrobe considerations, there is some kind of parameter that states the dirty clothes hamper is a perfectly acceptable overflow container when the dresser drawer is full. At least this is my assumption as I can think of no other reason I would find layers of neatly folded clothing beneath piles of dirty ones.

And this constitutes only a small portion of the laundry we create. These are the clothes not worn. The remaining articles of clothing, the ones actually worn, those requiring soap and water, take up a considerable portion of one of the rooms in our house.

A couple of years ago we built onto our home in order to accommodate the growing size of our family. One of the things we did was to build on a bathroom large enough to install a washer, dryer, and hot water heater. With a double sink, toilet, and bathtub, as you can imagine, this bathroom could easily equal a small bedroom in many homes.

Not long ago, after skipping a few days of laundry due to extra time spent working at the newspaper office, I stepped into the back bathroom to catch up on some household chores. I was concerned, if not shocked, perhaps even momentarily terrified at what I saw.

The clothing lay strewn about the floor in a most curious fashion. There were shirts, inside out, hair ties cinching the fabric to better fit the form of the slender body that no longer remained inside. I saw pants along side the shirts, inside out, underwear still attached; in some cases, socks peeking from inside the cuffs of the legs as if some mysterious force sucked the body from within the garments. Empty shoes, boots, and sandals tossed about the floor, a floor I could no longer see. This was either the epicenter of one of the worst laundering accidents experienced by mankind, or this was the scene of a massive alien abduction.

In the end, I figured if the aliens had them, they better hope they had one heck of a laundry facility aboard their interstellar craft, because they had abducted an entire squad of laundry generators. I smiled, alone with the thoughts of just how foolish this “superior” species had been to abduct my crew. I set about my task of triaging the scene by color, which was promptly ignored when the girls had returned home, apparently not abducted by aliens after all.

So, for now, I will just continue to buy the industrial size detergent box, keep looking to the stars for potential UFOs, and make sure the Maytag Man is on speed dial, because the quest for whiter whites is an uphill battle in This World of Hurt.

Spray Tanning

In life, naked, spray tanning, wives on April 28, 2011 at 11:20 pm

I want to apologize to everyone for taking so long to write something new. I would say that I had a mild case or writer’s block, but in reality I was just at an unusual loss for anything clever to say. This was a shortlived condition however. I rarely remain at a loss for words.

So, anyway, let’s get to it.

My wife ordered equipment in order to start her own business. She now offers airbrush tanning in a mobile fashion. Nowadays, you can get that “all summer at the beach” glow having never left the comfort of your own home. Pretty cool side job actually. Of course, once the word gets out and she builds a strong client base it could turn into her main source of income. She seems to have quite the natural knack for it and the color combinations that she uses leaves her clients with a lovely caramel tint… not all “orangey” like some of those other liquid, synthetic sunlight applying agencies… but I digress.

The point is that she has the equipment and now needs clients; which she also seems to have no problem in acquiring… who knew sunless tanning was so popular.

Now here’s the kicker. Many women—so it would seem—that have this done would prefer to have no tan-lines; or at the very least they would only care to have tan-lines on the bottom, thus, going topless. You know, having their boobs bronzed.

Sorry about that last one, I couldn’t resist, but after all, I’m still a dude. They can’t take that away from me. My dudizems shall not go gently into that good night!

These first few sessions took place just a couple of nights ago at our home. I would say, oh, a half a dozen different women—either topless or naked—attended. Pretty good first day actually.

Well now, if you read my “About” section—wink wink, nudge nudge—you would have learned about my early days as a D.J. in the nightclub industry. See, a few years of spending your workday with strippers will pretty much de-sensitize you to nudity; and so I am. However, my wife’s new clients did not share this same sentiment at all.

So, if we connect the dots: wife starting a new business, attempting to make clients comfortable and happy, house full of women from six to…considerably older, at least one of them naked or topless acquiring her sunless glow, and me being the only man.  Yyyep, you got it; good old Jeff gets sequestered to unused parts of the house and efficient access to important places such as the kitchen cut off. If I need a sandwich or a nice, refreshing carbonated beverage, I must exit through the front door, circle around the house, and re-enter through the back door, then, through the laundry area, and finally on to the kitchen; making sure all the while to divert my eyes away from any open window that would allow me to see anything—or a possible reflection of anything—that would make anyone feel uncomfortable. All I can say is that I am thankful that we didn’t leave any un-attended rakes lying around outside or I could have been killed.

Not a total nightmare though, a couple of the ladies had some babies that were boys. So, for a while, I had someone to hang out with. After those guys took off I said “screw it”, and went to find my brother in-law, who I was sure was located in a place where you could release flatulence in the midst of conversation and spit on the floor. So there it is, folks, just another day in This World of Hurt.

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