Because Nothing Says "Sexy" Like Dead Cats
Last night Curtis and I were cuddled up on the couch, watching "Hoarders." This particular episode featured Vula, an elderly lady who had hoarded so much junk - including over 30 sickly cats - that the cleanup team had to wear hazmat suits just to clear the stuff out. Everything was covered in poop and hair and Lord only knows what else; the place made my house on its worst day look as sterile as an operating room. (Check out a 30-second episode preview here if you can stomach it!)
I sat there, watching in horror as the workers peeled the crusty and decaying bodies of dead cats and kittens from the layers of rubble. I'm not an easily grossed-out person. I mean, dirty diapers have been part of my daily repertoire for five straight years now. But this was making my stomach churn.
And in the midst of all this, just as I'm sitting here slack-jawed in disbelief at all this filth, Curtis pulls me into his lap and starts making out with me.
Um ... okay. But I mean ... really?
I wouldn't exactly call this a complaint. I mean, I'm thankful that my husband finds me attractive enough that even an especially repulsive episode of "Hoarders" doesn't dampen his desire to jump my bones. And I do love his attention. But I don't understand. At all.
I'm not saying it takes flowers and candles and champagne and chocolate covered strawberries and music and a life-sized cutout of Johnny Depp to get me in the mood for some lovin', y'all. I'm not that difficult to seduce. But I do need to be in the mood. And call me frigid, but watching people remove dead cats and poop from someone's house doesn't exactly put me in a sexy frame of mind. Neither do some of the other scenarios during which Curtis has pounced upon me by surprise ... like when I'm walking around in sweatpants and a grungy T-shirt, with leg hair so long it's starting to resemble dreadlocks. It baffles me. Doesn't he want to at least wait until I'm, you know, clean or something?
This isn't uncommon, and I'm pretty sure it isn't limited to just my husband. I think all dudes are, in some capacity, horndogs waiting for the right opportunity to strike. But what I want to know is exactly how the "right opportunity" can occur in the middle of ... anything. Even total, blatant, disgusting un-sexiness. And dead cats.