(And before you get to feeling too sorry for the Mister, may I remind you that he once compared me to a silverback gorilla. Ahem.)
Anyway, the other day was his birthday, and I had the perfect present in mind. He's always - like, erry day - asking the kids to massage his feet. No: "asking" is probably not a strong enough word. Begging, pleading, bribing, cajoling, more along those lines. And the kids are all, "No, Dad, ewww!" unless there's a dollar involved, at which point they pretty much just flex his toes back and forth for approximately sixty seconds and then collect payment.
He asks me to do it, too, but as much as I love the man ..... I can't even. I mean, I wash his socks, and they can practically stand up by themselves.
I'd like to thank Britney Spears for perfectly summing up my feelings on the matter.
So my mom and I decided that for his birthday, we'd enlist the help of a professional to get him the foot massage of his dreams. After wading through a sea of dodgy prospects (you can get some pretty sketchy results when you Google "foot massage," y'all), I found a place that looked awesome. So I called them up and ordered him a gift certificate.
"Who should I make it out to?" chirped the receptionist cheerfully.
"Curtis Templeton," I told her.
The certificate came in the mail the next day:
Bahahahaha!!!!! I laughed so much that my abs are sore. Clearly I should have enunciated better over the phone. Of all the mispronunciations of our relatively-simple last name (I was once addressed as "Mrs. Templento"), this is a new one. And of all the things I've ever called him, this hasn't been one.
.... But it is now.