Musings
Woman Versus Stroller
Aug 31, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings | Tags: The Idiot Mom
There are countless beautiful moments in a mother’s life, none of which involve standing in the middle of a mall parking lot screaming, “HOW THE HELL DO I COLLAPSE THIS STROLLER?!”
Which is to say my afternoon was, well, somewhat ugly on Sunday.
Mr. Candy had already left on yet another one of his “business trips.” I use quotation marks not because I suspect he is doing something seedy, but because I am convinced he is just holed up in a hotel down the street somewhere and sighing contentedly, “Finally, I’ve escaped the madness!” I couldn’t blame him. It is a bit of a madhouse around here lately, what with a moody toddler who’s laughing one minute, angrily pounding on the floor the next — and a wife who is prone to doing the same. If I ever find out that Mr. Candy’s business trips are actually mental health breaks, I will have no choice but to grab him by the shoulders and scream, “IT’S MY TURN NEXT TIME!”
With my husband on the road — allegedly — and no family within a two-thousand-mile radius, I was unable to live-blog the Emmys because I had to watch Skye and make sure she didn’t do something unwise, like pull a TV on her head. It was a beautiful day here in Los Angeles, so naturally I took my one-year-old out to get some fresh air at, um, Bloomingdale’s. (Hey, sometimes Mommy needs to go to her playground, too.) Skye and I had a lovely time together. I got my much-needed Bloomie’s fix. She got to partake of her favorite pastime: people-watching. And she has no qualms about openly staring at folks for minutes on end, to the point that I feel the need to interject: “Ha, ha! She hasn’t learned her manners yet!”
Of course, what she really needs to learn is that is why sunglasses were invented.
When Skye started wrinkling her nose (loose translation: Nap. Now. Woman!), we headed out to the car, weighed down with brown Bloomingdale’s bags. Glorious, brown Bloomingdale’s bags. I rarely get to the mall these days, so I was feeling quite giddy UNTIL… I tried to collapse the stroller. It is a fairly new Maclaren umbrella stroller that Mr. Candy, our Official Baby-Thingy Expert, had always handled before. You see, I am not one of those super-moms who can install a car seat with one hand, while juggling a baby and conducting a philharmonic with the other. Heck, I was prouder than Dina Lohan on prison talent show night when I figured out how to open the stroller — after only fifteen minutes of jiggling and pulling every part of it. Unfortunately, that same approach did not work with closing Skye’s “simple” umbrella stroller. I kicked it. Punched it. Gave it a time-out. Nothing worked. So I did what any mother with a tired, screaming toddler sitting in the backseat and ornery stroller would do: I tried shoving it, as-is, in the passenger seat. And when it did not fit there, I scanned the parking lot for my savior. To my great relief, it did not take long.
PAN OVER TO: A family of five, with a FATHER PUSHING A MACLAREN STROLLER!
ME: (SENDING UP SMOKE SIGNALS) Excuse me? Help! Help!
THE FATHER: (SPOTS THE STROLLER TAKING A TIME-OUT IN THE CORNER) Just a sec. Let me get my wife.
This woman, I kid you not, had that stroller collapsed in two seconds flat. And it probably wasn’t even her best time. Her hands and feet did things to that stroller that cannot be legal in most states. Thankfully, however, this is California where those things are not only legal, but encouraged. I wanted to hug that woman with the mad mommy skillz and dexterous limbs. But I did not want to frighten her so I simply cried, “THANK YOU! OH MY GOD, YOU SAVED MY LIFE, THANK YOU, THANK YOOOUUUU!”
Oh yeah. Much more normal.
The Battle of Snow Globe
Aug 24, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings | Tags: Hmpf, Love & Marriage
The sparkly battle lines have been drawn
You know those neighbors who still have Christmas lights hanging from the edge of their roof, and every time you drive by, you cluck to your spouse, “It’s August, for heaven’s sake. WHEN ARE THEY GOING TO TAKE DOWN THOSE FREAKING LIGHTS?”
Well, I happen to know the answer: When the responsible party — likely a married couple — decides to actually communicate about the lights. Also known as: never.
You see, Mr. Candy and I have our own version of the inappropriate Christmas lights, a perfectly lovely holiday snow globe that should have been packed away seven months ago. Being the eagle-eyed observer that I am, I realized around Easter that it was still lingering in our living room — presumably having escaped from the box also containing my wild-eyed, violin-playing Santa doll. Because no decoration could have been thrilled about sharing such tight quarters with THAT creepy guy for eleven straight months.
WHAT I SAID TO MR. CANDY: “Why is this snow globe still in here?”
WHAT I WANTED HIM TO HEAR: “You were supposed to take this down to storage months ago. Please do so now.”
WHAT MR. CANDY SAID IN RESPONSE: “Dunno.”
WHAT MR. CANDY WANTED ME TO HEAR: “I have no idea what you just said. Can’t you see I’m trying to watch the Sixers game here, woman?”
Both of us emerged from this exchange, satisfied that we were on the same page. After all, we had made our feelings crystal clear! Only, strangely, something got lost in translation. Because the snow globe remained in our house. And I “innocently” changed the channel from the basketball game to E! News Daily that day.
Weird, right?
And it only gets weirder. No matter how many times I ask, Why is this snow globe still in here?, and regardless of how many accusatory glances I shoot his way while standing next to the snow globe, MR. CANDY DOES NOT TAKE THE SNOW GLOBE TO OUR STORAGE SHED.
It’s like I need to ask him to take it to storage or something. I just don’t get it.
I’ve even tried putting the offending decoration on top of my box of maternity clothes, in hopes that bundling them would inspire Mr. Candy to finally give in, and carry the box AND the snow globe down to the garage. He kindly put away the box of clothes — and left the snow globe on our coffee table.
Oh, this was war. And, believe you me, I let him know so:
“Why is this snow globe on the coffee table?” I asked, eyebrow arched menacingly.
“Dunno,” Mr. Candy shrugged, thinking to himself, “What is it with her and the snow globe? And that eyebrow thing — does that mean she wants sex now? WOO-HOO!”
Sure, I could have taken the thing down to storage myself. But that would be admitting defeat! So I exercised the only other rational option — and placed the snow globe in various prominent spots around the house, going as far as to rearrange our console table to showcase the damn thing, believing that the very SIGHT of the Christmas decoration in July would be enough to push Mr. Candy over the edge.
WHAT I THINK WHEN I SEE THE DAMN THING: “Gah! Eyesore!”
WHAT MR. CANDY THINKS: “You know, if we got rid of that table, we’d have room for a bigger TV.”
Needless to say, the snow globe still resides in our house and will no doubt remain here until Christmas. Once the New Year rolls around, I’m going to settle this “battle” once and for all… and dump it in the plastic Jack-o-Lantern outside our door.
The N-Word
Aug 17, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings
No! Mommy’s shoulder is not for teething purposes.
No! Don’t drink the cats’ water.
No! Pound on daddy‘s laptop instead.
Lately we’ve been saying “no” ’round here even more frequently than we sigh, “The Kardashians are on TV again?!” Oh yes, we say it THAT MUCH.
Miss Skye is no dummy; the one-year-old knows exactly what “no” means: that she should immediately disengage from the cats’ water bowl, smile sweetly to let us know she is an angel who would never intentionally seek out trouble, then wait for us to get distracted so she can finally return to lapping up the cats’ fur-filled water.
Can’t blame her. The kid needs to drink something to wash down the fleshy chunks of my shoulder.
But wait…! According to something I overheard at a party, I am supposed to refrain from saying the N-word anywhere near my child.
“We try to say ‘that’s not for babies’ or ‘that’s not a good idea’ instead of no,” the parent of a 14-month-old divulged to a circle of fellow parents, who all nodded in agreement. “We don’t think it’s good for children to learn that word.”
That word. Said in hushed tones, as if she were referring to something really and truly horrific. Like the flood in Pakistan. Or life without chocolate.
Uh-oh. Only twelve months into this parenting gig, and I am already guilty of teaching my child habits that are universally frowned upon? (Well, besides the Ben & Jerry’s for lunch and Gossip Girl for pre-bedtime entertainment. Also known as Meltdown Preemption. Skye gets very cranky when she’s not kept apprised of the latest in Upper East Side tights and headband trends.) Yet, as Carrie Bradshaw would say, I couldn’t help but wonder… aren’t there times when a firm N-O is necessary and more effective than, say, a shake of my head and tsk-tsk*?
Confused, I turned to the No-Fail, Totally Credible Holy Grail of Parenting for answers. And, when my Google search for “saying no to kids is bad?” proved inconclusive, I turned to my mom.
“You young parents crack me up with your alternative discipline and crap,” Mom responded. “Of course you should say no. Kids have to learn right from wrong.”
“But what if Skye starts saying ‘no’ back to me?”
“Not if. When.”
“Then what?”
“Then I sit back and laugh.”
The take-away here is clear: we all have different parenting techniques — most of them well-intentioned — but kids should learn to say “no,” if only to refuse drugs and to react the inevitable return of acid wash jeans in their lifetime. Also, never seek parental advice from a grandparent. Their only mission is karma-driven revenge.
*To the mother who used this technique when her child kicked the back of my seat for most of a five-hour flight: Next time I am going to SIC MY CHILD ON YOUR SHOULDER.
The next chapter
Aug 9, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings | Tags: I'm bringing todby back
There comes a moment in most every parent’s life when we sit down, take a deep breath and ask ourselves, “Did I just sit on a plastic hammer?” Then, once we remove the offending toy from our behind, we look at our kid and think, “Now what?”
As you may remember from waaaaaaay back when, like, a whole two weeks ago (well, it feels like a lifetime ago), I was struggling with the blues. Blues that had manifested in the form of a horrifying pimple named Pete (naturally), with which I was on the verge of a common-law marriage. Although we stayed together longer than, say, a Kate Hudson liaison, I am happy to report that Pete and I have since amicably parted ways. Partially because Mr. Candy did not want any part of that threesome — not exactly the ménage à trois he has dreamed of ever since I mentioned my dream about Tiffani-Amber Thiessen — but mostly because I got over my mourning period that caused Pete to appear in the first place.
That’s right. I now realize I was in mourning the weeks preceding Miss Skye’s birthday. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was mourning the passing of her first year, which flew by ridiculously fast. There is just something about that first year of life, especially with a first-born. It is so very difficult, yes, but also such an adrenaline rush. Everything is novel; I woke up every day wondering what new, amazing trick my baby had in store for me. Would she blow two bubbles in a row? Grab a block with HER OWN HANDS? Drool enough to save California from the drought? Despite my exhaustion, I was fascinated. I was, for lack of a less corny phrase, on a mommy high. We need that high to survive pregnancy and the first year of parenthood. ‘Cause, let’s face it, it’s not all rainbows and unicorns. And as Lindsay Lohan can surely attest, unexpectedly coming off of a 21-month-high is highly unsettling.
“Where did my baby go?” I lamented to my mother during Skye’s Birthday Tour. Mom comforted me with her trademark sensitivity.
“What is WRONG with you?” she demanded to know. “When you guys were babies, I was PROUD when you grew older and could start doing things, like walking.”
Sidebar: Right now my mom is sitting in her kitchen and shaking her head at the computer monitor: “Why does that Candy always make me look like an a-hole?!”
Because that’s more entertaining, Mom! That’s why. But you know I adore you. And your sensitivity.
Of course I am proud. I love that Skye has become my little buddy and is blossoming into an actual — GASP! — person. Yes! Even when she throws a tantrum because the evil that is her mother won’t let her eat a penny. POOR BABY. Oops… I mean, POOR TODDLER. When she does start walking, which will no doubt be any day now (perhaps when I offer her a delicious penny as incentive), you won’t have to read about it on this here blog because I will hire a skywriter to announce it to the world: MY KID IS ON HER WAY TO BEING THE NEXT FLORENCE GRIFFITH JOYNER, PEOPLE! ONLY WITHOUT THE DRUGS. OR CRAZY NAILS. OR PERSONAL TRAGEDY.
Hmmm. Or not. I think I’ll just Tweet, “Woo-hoo! The kid’s walking!”
My sadness should not be mistaken for a desire to hold the kid back or, heaven forbid, relive her first year in any way. It’s more that having a baby was sort of like my sixteenth birthday party: I looked forward to it for months and months, feeling as though I would literally burst from the anticipation, enjoyed the ride, then before I could even blink — POW! It was over. Where did the time go?
At least I still have a ton of stuff to look forward to with Skye, unlike my post-birthday party life. Because, as any women’s magazine will insinuate with its pre-adolescent models, it’s all downhill after turning the big 1-6. Unless you’re a man, in which case you only become more virile and appealing well into your 80s. True story.
During Miss Skye’s East Coast Birthday Tour, I could feel my sadness lifting. The massive amounts of cake I consumed certainly helped. By the time we got back to Los Angeles, I was already over it and ready to move on to the next exciting chapter in our little family’s life. Which, I’ve decided, includes a return to three-inch heels and blonder highlights. (Done, and done.) You know, the things that really matter. With Skye’s increasing independence — that’s right, she practically watches herself these days (but we’re not letting her drive until next year) — also comes an increasing amount of time to focus on myself again. And you know what? It is so nice.
But I still refuse to call my little girl a toddler. Yikes! I’m not quite there yet. Maybe a baby-toddler hybrid: a todby? Or a babler…?
Yeah, you’re right. Let’s just call her Skye. Or HEY YOU, DROP THAT PENNY!
Well, that’s one way to clean the closet
Aug 3, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Home & Garden,Musings | Tags: Cleaning Tips
You know how I was bitching about having to clean my closet? Problem solved!
Here is one home organization tip you won’t find in Redbook: Simply have your home developer install an air conditioner with a drain smaller than an anthill entrance above your closet, wait four years for it to clog up, making it leak all over your closet carpet for days without your knowledge (because you were too busy avoiding the closet and the task of cleaning it. . . duh), so you are forced to fork over a thousand bucks to a carpet restoration company to rip up the carpet, along with your baseboards, and — this is where the Martha Stewart-esque organization system comes into play — dump the contents of your closet on your bed and floor to make room for the massive, heat-generating dehumidifier that must run for days to prevent mold and mildew, causing the temperature in your bedroom to spike to 100 degrees and rendering the clothes in your closet moot, anyway, because the only way to survive the Death Valley-like conditions is to go completely and utterly naked. (Or so my husband insists.)
Woo-hoo! Closet: CLEANED.
The Baby Manicure Tragedy
Aug 2, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Featured,Musings
Re-posted from October 16, 2009. The family is en route to Los Angeles after Skye’s successful 2010 East Coast Birthday Tour.
The manicure victim blows bubbles to cope with her trauma
With motherhood comes many new and important responsibilities, such as picking baby boogers, wincing when your husband picks out the wrong pair of baby socks and Tweeting about the State of Your Breast Milk. Another such responsibility is giving your baby regular manicures so that she doesn’t wake up looking like she’d spent the night wrestling a raccoon, as my child did this morning. Feeling horribly guilty about the tiny scratches near Miss Skye’s right eye, I did what any concerned mother would — and put out several raccoon traps around the house.
Once I owned up to the situation and maturely admitted that she had scratches because MR. CANDY had failed to trim her nails (men, I tell ya), I decided to clip them myself before she, you know, lost an eye or something. Have you ever given a baby a manicure? The thing about babies is — and you non-parents out there may not know this — is that they’re small! As are their nails! And their nail CLIPPERS! Cutting their tiny little nails with their tiny little nail clippers feels as natural as putting fake eyelashes on the cats. Which they are not happy about, by the way.
Another thing about babies? Is that, at eleven weeks old, they like to move around. A LOT. Fascinated by these things called arms and legs attached to her body, Skylar is constantly testing them and flailing about as though she’s auditioning for Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance. Given this, any mother with common sense would, of course, try to cut her nails while she was asleep and immobile.
So I, naturally, cut them while she was awake and flailing on my lap.
You know what’s coming, don’t you? Oh yes. SNIP goes the skin, making her tiny little finger bleed. Baby Girl looked at me like, “Why would you DO that to me?!”, pouted, then cried for a solid ten seconds. Yes, only ten seconds. I, on the other hand, cried about it all afternoon. Omigod, people — inflicting pain on your child, however unintentional…? THE. WORST. FEELING. IN. THE. WORLD. I honestly felt faint, like I could pass out from the horrible, overwhelming guilt. Is this what Catholics often feel like? If so, I’m glad my dad stopped practicing Catholicism before I was born. ‘Cause that depth of guilt is practically paralyzing, I tell ya.
Needless to say, I did not cut the remainder of Miss Skye’s nails today. Instead I held her closely and offered my boobs as a peace offering. Now I’m faced with the age-old parental dilemma: Let my daughter scratch her eyes out or sever her hand with the clippers? Ugh. It’s SO much more fun picking baby boogers.
Blame It on Mama Sutra
Jul 15, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings,Sex | Tags: Puns Galore, Sexy Time
Mr. Candy is a very easygoing guy. Just about anything I want to write about is fair game — except for sex. And how much I think his beloved Sixers stink (which I, the sensitive wife, would never publicly announce). Because not only do our friends and family read this column, but so do some of Mr. Candy’s colleagues and clients. A totally reasonable request on my husband’s part, and I’ve assured him that I would never, ever humiliate him by talking about sex in this here column.
Until I opened our mailbox and was accosted by something so wrong, so vile, so unbelievably horrifying, that I could remain silent on the topic no more.
It was a Parenting magazine. With a big ol’ headline screaming in yellow font, “MAMA SUTRA… Hot tips for a more satisfying sex life.”
MAMA SUTRA, people! Oh yes, they went there. How long did it take their crack editorial team to come up with that? Y’all know I am a sucker for a good, cheesy pun, but this was just too much. Too much, I say!
Like a car wreck or the neighborhood drag queen who bikes around town in a sequin miniskirt and no underwear, I could not look away. I opened the magazine for the very first time in my year-long subscription — I kid you not — and checked out these “hot tips.” In fact, if you read any women’s publications, then you know that sex after baby is a SERIOUS issue, in that many women SERIOUSLY have no interest in it after popping out an eight-pound kid and being so exhausted that they have to snort lines of Red Bull just to remain upright.
I was one of those women. (Hear that? That’s the sound of Mr. Candy’s head going THUD on his desk.)
While my husband recovers from his concussion, let’s get back to Parenting‘s guide for a “more satisfying sex life” for a second. To reclaim your mojo, moms, all you have to do is: 1) Kiss; 2) Do chores together, an activity the magazine deems CHOREPLAY; 3) “Touch base before touching boobs”; and 4) Wear pretty underwear.
CHOREPLAY! The couple that scrubs toilets together, humps together!
Speaking from the perspective of a new mother, caressing a bottle of Windex together does not make me want to spread my legs. I’m weird like that, I know. The problem is, as soon as women get the six-week postpartum green-light from the doctor, the husband is all, WOO-HOO! PARTY TIME! And, having read Parenting‘s handy guide, he dutifully breaks out his sexiest can of Lysol to get us in the mood. But no…! It’s not that simple. Things are often still dry and painful and funky1 down there. Also, and this is an important, potentially marriage-saving point: the Lysol could be construed as an offensive hint. Put it away immediately, boys.
Not to mention that if a new mother is lucky enough to get a free moment, sex is not exactly foremost on her list of things to do. She will want to hop in bed, yes, but she will want to hop in bed and sleep while her husband grumbles some gibberish about how he touched base but no boobs. Poor guy. For most men, sex trumps sleep, not understanding — or caring — that a woman’s body is designed, at its most primal level, to procreate. An old-fashioned notion? I don’t know. We are animals, after all. We get the urge most explicitly when we’re ovulating. And after we’ve given birth, our bodies are generally hardwired to nurse and care for the baby. Period. Many new mothers are not interested in sex because, well, that’s just how our bodies work.
Oh, and did I mention the funkiness?2
In conducting research for this column, and by research I mean googling “sex after baby” (and reading some excessively detailed descriptions of postpartum vaginae3 that almost made me faint, I kid you not) I came across a number of parenting forums where brand-spanking-new mothers (emphasis on spanking) bragged about how their sex drives were stronger than ever, and how they and their husbands were doing it, like, five times a day… on the kitchen floor, in their baby’s swing, on top of the Diaper Genie… and to them I say, good for you, you freaks! Because that’s the kind of magnanimous, not-at-all bitter person I am.
Without revealing too much for the sake of my marriage — I happen to truly love Mr. Candy and respect his privacy, and I haven’t even had a chance to take advantage of his United Airlines platinum status yet! — I will note that things, um, moved forward shortly after my six-week checkup, but it wasn’t until nine MONTHS after having the baby that I thought, Okay, NOW I can kind of get into this.
Do I know how to flatter a guy or what?
If I were to write a MAMA SUTRA guide, my recommendations would be simple: 1) Tell your husband if he lets you sleep in, you’ll let him touch boobs!; and 2) Keep in mind that a glass or two of wine can whet more than your thirst.
Also, and this is another important, potentially marriage-saving point: Be sure to never, ever ask your spouse if he’d like to engage in CHOREPLAY or MAMA SUTRA. Yikes. Those puns are enough to make you groan, all right. Just not in the good way.
Okay, you can open your eyes now, Mr. Candy. Mr. Candy…?
1 A highly scientific medical term for What the hell is going ON down there?!
2 Yes, it goes away.
3 Thank you, spell check. To think I almost used the pedestrian spelling, vaginas!
Eight Years of Marriage
Jul 6, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings | Tags: Love & Marriage
The foundation of a good marriage: a shared love for high-fashion
Mr. Candy and I were not brought together in a “meet-cute.” We didn’t hop into the same New York cab in the pouring rain. Our hands didn’t brush reaching for the same latte on the Stabucks counter. In fact, Mr. Candy hates coffee. He hates the taste of it, the smell of it — if I give him a post-latte kiss, he’ll pull back and grimace, “Mmmm. Latte lips.” In the very same tone I would say, “Mmmm. Fruitcake. Again. Thanks, Aunt Betty.” But he will offer to go to Starbucks at 10 p.m. if I so much as mention I need a fix. Which is just one of many things that makes him so awesome.
When we met at a party that my roommates and I were hosting, both Mr. Candy and I had just moved to New York City after graduating from our respective colleges. I had recently broken up with my boyfriend of three years — a long time for a young lass such as myself — and was ready to sow my wild oats in the big city; Mr. Candy came to the party with his girlfriend, a sweet, lovely gal who sulked in the corner, nursing her apple-and-pear wine cooler, and rolled her eyes at our “immature” jokes.
I know. Can you believe it? A WINE COOLER. Obviously, it was never meant to be.
Our romantic destiny was sealed when I casually mentioned to my friends at the party that I thought Mr. Candy was cute. I’ve always had a thing for super-smart guys. Some chicks like bulging muscles. Me…? I tingled when I heard my future husband had graduated magna cum laude from Wharton’s undergraduate School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania, majoring in their two hardest concentrations. Plus, even more importantly, he shared my passion for copious amounts of alcohol. RAWR.
Yes, I said it: TINGLED.
Well, my friends decided it was their job — nay, their mission in life — to hook up Mr. Candy and me. Because that’s the kind of romantics they are. But mostly, because they despised his current girlfriend and figured I was a slightly less annoying option.
After a lot of giggling and conspiring and running back and forth between rooms, as only 21-year-olds would do, our friends somehow convinced The Evil Girlfriend to go home — without Mr. Candy — which allowed the two of us to bond over Jell-O shots and the fact that we both enjoyed Sammy Hagar with Van Halen. Meanwhile, The Evil Girlfriend returned to Mr. Candy’s apartment and, I kid you not, FOLDED HIS LAUNDRY.
Who knew Mr. Candy was such a playa? That dawg.
Six years later — including one year of dating, one year of living in sin, two years of me going to grad school in a different city and two years of Mr. Candy going to grad school (but always committed to each other) — we finally got hitched.
That was eight years ago today.
Many of my single friends ask me what our “secret” to happiness is. Friendship, of course, is high on the list. As is laughter. Two television sets. A willingness to “look the other way” whenever you find porn on your spouse’s computer. (Sorry you had to see that, Mr. Candy.) Whenever I become sentimental and ask my husband what he first noticed about me, he always gets starry-eyed and smiles: “Your boobs.” Then, when he notices the look on my face, he sputters: “I mean your eyes. YOUR EYES!”
So, yeah, I would also suggest low-cut tops.
After eight years of marriage, I can tell you exactly what Mr. Candy is thinking after reading this tribute (?) to us: “Wait — she DIDN’T marry me for my bulging muscles?”
Yes, honey, your bulging muscles also made me tingle. Just as you were attracted to my EYES.
Happy Anniversary, my muscly, brainy love.
