Wednesday
15Oct2008
Mrs. Khaki Pants - Hubby Gets Down for Dinner Party: Oct. 15, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008 at 12:43PM
“Anne here, Mrs. Khaki Pants. You promised to give us the sinfully delicious details of Hubby’s, neurobic sexed up dinner party. We’re waiting breathlessly. Do tell.”
“Stop beating around the bush here, KP. What do you mean … you’re too embarrassed … you can’t believe you did it?”
“What does ‘it’ mean, Mrs. Khaki Pants?”
I truly don’t understand the big deal here, my friends, but sometimes the strongest, most articulate alpha women from Carversville to Little Rock, just can’t talk about sex.
Anne must lead the conversation then. Here we go:
Poor Mrs. Khaki Pants. Trumpets did not blare. She had no idea what naughty thoughts were rolling around in Hubby’s mind, when he made his grand announcement.
Watching her now … it seems like a fairly normal day in the neighborhood.
Mrs. Khaki Pants Gets Out of the Kitchen
Surprise, KP. Your husband tells you that he’s sending the kids to his mother’s house this weekend. Why? He’s cooking a romantic dinner for the two of you on Saturday night.
What the heck! Something fell off your To Do list. Reboot at once.
It’s May, and you were married in October. Check. You were born in January; Mr. Adonis in August. Check. Goodness knows you’re not pregnant. Double check.
What’s wrong with this picture? Time for a query.
“But, honey, you only cook pancakes and bacon on Saturday morning. You don’t know how to make anything else since I’ve known you. Not even coffee. For a hot cup of java, you have Dunkin’ Donuts.”
He smiles. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Your guy is on a mission.
Amazon Delivers
That Amazon box he opened last week wasn’t the updated edition of “House Repair for Dummies”. In fact, the man who hasn’t pulled a new love-ya-honey move in 10 years has been reading sex books.
You heard me. Your husband’s thoroughly engrossed in another aspect of home maintenance these days, a structure called the foundation of your relationship.
He, too, thinks that something’s amiss in the marital bed. Hubby only prays that there’s still fire in your loins, KP. I remind you that HKP’s not a mind reader.
We ALL remind you that talking about sexual desire is not in your vocabulary,
In fact, this little party is strictly his initiative. Prepare yourself, my dear. The “Kama Sutra” is on the way.
Dumbfounding Dinner Party Bells
Saturday night comes, and you’re hungry. Dinner is already an hour late, but that’s to be expected. He can’t cook.
Hubby runs you a hot bath, suggesting that you linger under bubbles, until you’re deliciously relaxed. “Do not rush yourself, darling” he smiles. “You need a long soaking.”
Surely this is not the way a man asks for a divorce. What’s going on!
There are no sounds of panic in the kitchen, no cries of anguish, no pans banging on their way to the stove. Things are going too smoothly without you.
Did he buy dessert? Of course not! Hubby Khaki Pants always forgets something. If only he made a list.
Finally, you hear a foreign language calling … “darling”? This is two “darlings” in 40 minutes. Something terrible is about to happen … a total Khaki Pants world collapse.
Time Out: Bag the Khakis
I want to write your script this way, KP:
Intrigued beyond your wildest expectations, you rush down the stairs, smelling of soft rain and gentle breeze. Your totally predictable, sweetheart of a guy waits in the dining room doorway.
In reality you are trudging towards the top of the stairs. This is not an execution, KP. Perk up.
STOP right this moment, KP!
You march right back into your master bedroom and put on a skirt. Get rid of those twill trousers. I want to see legs this minute!!!
Your husband has asked you to dinner and you look like you’re on your way to a eco-gardeners meeting. And while you’re changing clothes, Mrs. Khaki Pants, get rid of any white cotton underwear. No high-leg cotton briefs of any color.
Don’t argue with me. I could care less whose brand it is. It can be La Perla. Take them off!
Honestly, my friends, now I know why I never had children. OK, I think she’s ready now.
Let us see you KP … all right, you actually look semi-seductive. Back to the top of the stairs, where you were, ready now to descend.
Time In: KP Makes Her Entrance
“How nice,” you say, moving towards Hubby, without making eye contact. “We’re not eating in the kitchen for once.” Hmmm, and whose fault is that, KP?
Approaching your Mr. Fix It, you see that the room is drenched in candlelight. A captivating mood caresses you now … a warm sensuality strokes your consciousness, leaving you pleasantly confused.
The man you know inside and out is calm and casual … seductive actually … leaning against the door frame, dressed in the black turtleneck you’ve asked him to wear endless times in the last three years, but he never would.
The tiniest smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, as your eyes meet Hubby’s. You bite your lower lip just a bit, in a moment of nervous tension.
Your guy looks confident, relaxed, and pretty darn sure of himself.
Hmmm … yes, KP, the twinge. Don’t ignore it. Twinges are good. Let’s go with the flow, Khaki Pants.
Hubby is the director this evening. Admit it, you like a man in charge on occasion.
What is this? Now there’s a present, an honest-to-goodness, beautifully-wrapped gift box, coming towards you . . for absolutely no reason, on a balmy May Saturday evening.
Finding Your Inner Gourmand
The only thing on the menu is you, KP.
Indeed, you are dinner, right there in the room where your mother sits at the head of the table every Christmas. Nothing escapes her. Will she notice something different this year?
The wood will be iridescent from your relentless buffing these next six months. Trust me, Mrs. Khaki Pants. Your mother will remain clueless about tonight’s feast, although she might ask you what’s come over you.
Hubby knows you so well, KP.
Let’s all live this moment and not rationalize it to death.
Light My Fire
We can only imagine is happening between the candlesticks, KP. The last time you lay prone on a table was in the doctor’s office. This is much more fun, don’t you think?
Come clean, KP. The sex is fantastic, once you’re over the shock of Hubby’s smooth moves.
I think we’ll just leave you here on the dining table, until our next installment. I must consult Hubby’s KamaSutra book, giving our friends a technical lesson of what’s happening in your sexy new world.
Inquiring minds want to know, KP.
Looking into my crystal ball, I will only tell them that once you let go of your inhibitions, unable to produce a single reason why sex wouldn’t work in this unusual position, you thoroughly enjoy rediscovering your risqué self.
You’re Smokin’ KP
Dendrites. New cognitive pathways. You have critical information for eager, interested readers, Mrs. Khaki Pants. In the name of science, we need to share as many juicy details as possible with our readers.
I’m sorry, KP. I didn’t hear you. What about the blindfold? My blindfold? You want to know if I have a blindfold?
I’ll speak with Melissa.
For now, you just enjoy life from your sexy new point of view, KP. Seriously, where’s Hubby?
No way! Poires Helene? He bought dessert after all? He’s going to feed you Poires Helene while you are naked on the dining room table? What an inventive mind, KP!
I was wondering why a recipe for Poires Helene showed up on Private Eye this morning. What a clever man! An original, KP. You better take good care of this guy.
Listen, when you two have finished your sinfully-delicious chocolate poire feasting, have Hubby give me a call. You can’t see a thing in your Mary Green eyemask, but I’m certain he can give me the juicy details for my how-to-do-it column.
We ladies wear skirts for at home dinners, KP… . skirts or nothing at all, that is. Goodness, we do have work to do with you, KP.
Love,
Anne
Dear readers, I will explain the Kama Sutra, neurobic sex moves Hubby used on our KP next in a few days… . always maintaining the limits of proper AnneofCarversville decorum, of course.
“Stop beating around the bush here, KP. What do you mean … you’re too embarrassed … you can’t believe you did it?”
“What does ‘it’ mean, Mrs. Khaki Pants?”
flickr’s alex who loves vinyl (and banana nut bread, of cou
I truly don’t understand the big deal here, my friends, but sometimes the strongest, most articulate alpha women from Carversville to Little Rock, just can’t talk about sex.
Anne must lead the conversation then. Here we go:
Poor Mrs. Khaki Pants. Trumpets did not blare. She had no idea what naughty thoughts were rolling around in Hubby’s mind, when he made his grand announcement.
Watching her now … it seems like a fairly normal day in the neighborhood.
Mrs. Khaki Pants Gets Out of the Kitchen
Surprise, KP. Your husband tells you that he’s sending the kids to his mother’s house this weekend. Why? He’s cooking a romantic dinner for the two of you on Saturday night.
What the heck! Something fell off your To Do list. Reboot at once.
It’s May, and you were married in October. Check. You were born in January; Mr. Adonis in August. Check. Goodness knows you’re not pregnant. Double check.
What’s wrong with this picture? Time for a query.
“But, honey, you only cook pancakes and bacon on Saturday morning. You don’t know how to make anything else since I’ve known you. Not even coffee. For a hot cup of java, you have Dunkin’ Donuts.”
He smiles. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Your guy is on a mission.
Amazon Delivers
That Amazon box he opened last week wasn’t the updated edition of “House Repair for Dummies”. In fact, the man who hasn’t pulled a new love-ya-honey move in 10 years has been reading sex books.
You heard me. Your husband’s thoroughly engrossed in another aspect of home maintenance these days, a structure called the foundation of your relationship.
He, too, thinks that something’s amiss in the marital bed. Hubby only prays that there’s still fire in your loins, KP. I remind you that HKP’s not a mind reader.
We ALL remind you that talking about sexual desire is not in your vocabulary,
In fact, this little party is strictly his initiative. Prepare yourself, my dear. The “Kama Sutra” is on the way.
Dumbfounding Dinner Party BellsSaturday night comes, and you’re hungry. Dinner is already an hour late, but that’s to be expected. He can’t cook.
Hubby runs you a hot bath, suggesting that you linger under bubbles, until you’re deliciously relaxed. “Do not rush yourself, darling” he smiles. “You need a long soaking.”
Surely this is not the way a man asks for a divorce. What’s going on!
There are no sounds of panic in the kitchen, no cries of anguish, no pans banging on their way to the stove. Things are going too smoothly without you.
Did he buy dessert? Of course not! Hubby Khaki Pants always forgets something. If only he made a list.
Finally, you hear a foreign language calling … “darling”? This is two “darlings” in 40 minutes. Something terrible is about to happen … a total Khaki Pants world collapse.
Time Out: Bag the Khakis
I want to write your script this way, KP:
Intrigued beyond your wildest expectations, you rush down the stairs, smelling of soft rain and gentle breeze. Your totally predictable, sweetheart of a guy waits in the dining room doorway.
In reality you are trudging towards the top of the stairs. This is not an execution, KP. Perk up.
STOP right this moment, KP!
You march right back into your master bedroom and put on a skirt. Get rid of those twill trousers. I want to see legs this minute!!!
Your husband has asked you to dinner and you look like you’re on your way to a eco-gardeners meeting. And while you’re changing clothes, Mrs. Khaki Pants, get rid of any white cotton underwear. No high-leg cotton briefs of any color.
Don’t argue with me. I could care less whose brand it is. It can be La Perla. Take them off!
Honestly, my friends, now I know why I never had children. OK, I think she’s ready now.
Let us see you KP … all right, you actually look semi-seductive. Back to the top of the stairs, where you were, ready now to descend.
Time In: KP Makes Her Entrance
“How nice,” you say, moving towards Hubby, without making eye contact. “We’re not eating in the kitchen for once.” Hmmm, and whose fault is that, KP?
Approaching your Mr. Fix It, you see that the room is drenched in candlelight. A captivating mood caresses you now … a warm sensuality strokes your consciousness, leaving you pleasantly confused.
The man you know inside and out is calm and casual … seductive actually … leaning against the door frame, dressed in the black turtleneck you’ve asked him to wear endless times in the last three years, but he never would.
The tiniest smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, as your eyes meet Hubby’s. You bite your lower lip just a bit, in a moment of nervous tension.
Your guy looks confident, relaxed, and pretty darn sure of himself.
Hmmm … yes, KP, the twinge. Don’t ignore it. Twinges are good. Let’s go with the flow, Khaki Pants.
Hubby is the director this evening. Admit it, you like a man in charge on occasion.
What is this? Now there’s a present, an honest-to-goodness, beautifully-wrapped gift box, coming towards you . . for absolutely no reason, on a balmy May Saturday evening.
Finding Your Inner Gourmand
The only thing on the menu is you, KP.
Indeed, you are dinner, right there in the room where your mother sits at the head of the table every Christmas. Nothing escapes her. Will she notice something different this year?
The wood will be iridescent from your relentless buffing these next six months. Trust me, Mrs. Khaki Pants. Your mother will remain clueless about tonight’s feast, although she might ask you what’s come over you.
Hubby knows you so well, KP.
Not Tonight Not Allowed
Let’s all live this moment and not rationalize it to death.
Light My Fire
We can only imagine is happening between the candlesticks, KP. The last time you lay prone on a table was in the doctor’s office. This is much more fun, don’t you think?
Come clean, KP. The sex is fantastic, once you’re over the shock of Hubby’s smooth moves.
I think we’ll just leave you here on the dining table, until our next installment. I must consult Hubby’s KamaSutra book, giving our friends a technical lesson of what’s happening in your sexy new world.
Inquiring minds want to know, KP.
Looking into my crystal ball, I will only tell them that once you let go of your inhibitions, unable to produce a single reason why sex wouldn’t work in this unusual position, you thoroughly enjoy rediscovering your risqué self.
You’re Smokin’ KP
Dendrites. New cognitive pathways. You have critical information for eager, interested readers, Mrs. Khaki Pants. In the name of science, we need to share as many juicy details as possible with our readers.
I’m sorry, KP. I didn’t hear you. What about the blindfold? My blindfold? You want to know if I have a blindfold?
I’ll speak with Melissa.
For now, you just enjoy life from your sexy new point of view, KP. Seriously, where’s Hubby?
No way! Poires Helene? He bought dessert after all? He’s going to feed you Poires Helene while you are naked on the dining room table? What an inventive mind, KP!
I was wondering why a recipe for Poires Helene showed up on Private Eye this morning. What a clever man! An original, KP. You better take good care of this guy.
Listen, when you two have finished your sinfully-delicious chocolate poire feasting, have Hubby give me a call. You can’t see a thing in your Mary Green eyemask, but I’m certain he can give me the juicy details for my how-to-do-it column.
Anne says that Mrs. Khaki Pants is dilerious, thinking that she’s a Juicy Couture woman. Juicy will be sold on 5 Delights.
We ladies wear skirts for at home dinners, KP… . skirts or nothing at all, that is. Goodness, we do have work to do with you, KP.
Love,
Anne
Dear readers, I will explain the Kama Sutra, neurobic sex moves Hubby used on our KP next in a few days… . always maintaining the limits of proper AnneofCarversville decorum, of course.
