Losing My Virginity
Parents and virginity: although I was born with both of them, I really am not comfortable with those two words occupying the same story, let alone the same sentence. In this instance, however, I’m afraid it’s unavoidable…
Because of my parents, Mr. Candy and I must pop our cherries. Our professional housekeeping cherry, that is.
You see, Mom and Dad are set to arrive here in La-La Land on Tuesday. Not to see us, of course (those days ended the day I announced my pregnancy), but to welcome their granddaughter into this crazy world of ours. I’ve already disappointed them by not producing a baby in advance of their visit — every time I talk to my mom these days, I can practically hear Billy Joel serenading my uterus: “Pre-SSURE!” — so the very least I can do is produce a clean house. Not an easy feat when I can no longer see the floor beyond my stomach and the very thought of bending over to pick up that ball of lint in the corner sends piercing knife-like pains through my pelvis.
To give props where props are due, Mr. Candy has stepped up the past few months like you would not even believe. He’s eagerly attended to my every Baby Mama need, from running down two flights of stairs just to get me a straw — I’m pregnant! These maternal lips cannot be expected to actually touch the glass of water! — to hanging pictures we’ve had lying around for several presidential administrations. He’s been wonderful. (Seriously, he is SO getting a piece when we are finally well-rested… in 2011.) But even Super Baby Daddy can’t be expected to clean this townhouse on his own; it’s a logistical nightmare to clean, what with all of the cat hair and four floors…
Oh, who am I kidding with the excuses. Pregnant, not pregnant, cat hair or not — Mr. Candy and I are SLOBS WHO HATE TO CLEAN! There! I said it! Always have been. Always will be. Thank goodness a bottle of Baileys destiny brought us together, because I can’t imagine anybody else would put up with my hubby’s tomato sauce-crusted kitchen sink and my piles of rejected, unworn clothes.
“Why don’t you just get a housekeeper?” our friend asked, eyeing the — this is just an estimate — two billion pairs of shoes thrown under our coffee table.
“Oh, that’s so pretentious,” Mr. Candy and I sighed in response, too embarrassed to admit the real reason: Because we’re afraid a housekeeper would disappear in my Bermuda Triangle of Clothes, never to be seen again. Or, worse, would laugh at us.
Well, that’s all about to change.
Let me tell ya, there’s nothing like the imminent arrival of a baby and your mother to put your ass in gear. Mr. Candy and I armed ourselves with Windex and Pledge, and managed to get the place to a state where we are not embarrassed to let a housekeeper enter our house. Yes, that’s right — we cleaned the house FOR THE HOUSEKEEPER! So on Tuesday morning, mere hours before my parents arrive, we are letting Heidy the Housekeeper penetrate our townhouse. Our home’s First Time with a professional. After Heidy lends her touch, we will no longer be housekeeping virgins.
No, instead, we’ll officially become yuppies. *GULP* You know what this means: First step, professional housekeeper. Second step, FAMILY PORTRAIT WITH MATCHING LACOSTE POLO SHIRTS! Woot!
No wonder Baby Girl is in no hurry to come out.