Sexy Saturdays: Blueberry Pancakes

You guys? You are going to die when you read today's Sexy Saturdays guest post. It is pure awesome. I am so happy to host Lori of Shnerfle today. I met this gal a while back on the Twitter and we were instant BFFs. Dirty jokes were told. Connections to similar places lived rehashed. Pictures of her very deliciously hot little brother were sent. And I was in love. With Lori. And, okay, her hot brother too. Yeesh.

Anyway, I love her wry sense of humor mixed with a humble wisdom that I am in awe of. She's not that much older than me, but I've decided I want to be her when I grow up. Would that be okay, Lori? Her blog is candid and witty and smart and her tweets are even better with a side of scathing. In other words? Completely awesome. Plus her kids? freaking funny and adorable. 

After you read her fanbloodytastic post, go subscribe to her blog and follow her on the Twitters.

Now seriously? Enjoy!

When I was 17, I met the man I would marry. He was 18 and we were freshmen in college. As that was the case, we had very little in the way of discretionary cash and didn’t go out much. In fact, as we were teenagers and had newly discovered each other, there was only one thing to do for entertainment, and that was each other.

In those heady days, we spend almost every moment together. And any moment that wasn’t occupied with class, food or basic hygiene was filled with sex. Morning sex. Afternoon sex. Evening sex. We fancied ourselves to be quite the experts in the field. Sure, there was some experimentation, but what we had in spades was enthusiasm.

We did what young lovers do, and we ignored our friends and family in favor of sex. We cut classes to have sex. We left movies early. We found creative locations. And as we spent most of out days lost in each other, it shouldn’t have been surprising in any way when we were interrupted.

Most often, it was his best friend who caused the trouble. You would THINK that he’d be happy his buddy was getting laid, but apparently, he felt that enough was enough. And he never knocked. Dude would just walk in the house and start yelling my boyfriend’s name. And we would scramble to cover ourselves before he walked into the bedroom. I wasn’t always successful, but he never seemed to mind. (Interestingly, this same guy found it pretty interesting when I nursed my babies. Gross.)
You would think that I would have become accustomed to embarrassment and no longer blushed or became flustered when I got caught en flagrante. You would think.

Until one morning, in the wee hours, as I stealthily slipped down the stairs of his house, shoes in my hand, borrowed t-shirt over yesterday’s jeans, heading for the door and my car and an equally stealthy entrance into my dad’s house. And then I heard her.

“Good morning, honey! Would you like some pancakes? I have blueberry!”

His mother was in the kitchen, making breakfast, for god’s sake, at five in the morning. She was entirely unsurprised to see me exiting her house at that hour.  I stammered my thanks and made a quick escape through the darkness to my car.

As I drove home, I had to wonder, how many times had she seen this very act before? I was humiliated. Not that his mother had caught me, but that she seemed so used to it, that she could offer me pancakes. How many girls had she caught sneaking down the stairs with their shoes in their hands? How long had she known about me? And how long would it be before I could ever look her in the face again.

It turned out that I hadn’t been the latest in a parade of sluts, as I had feared. She just wasn’t much of a sleeper, and had wanted some pancakes. The polite thing to do is to offer some to a guest, right?

These days, if I ask my mother-in-law about that early morning greeting, she says that she doesn’t remember it. But she still makes me blueberry pancakes. And now? Now I sit with her and eat them.