One Whipped Munkay

This was a very good weekend. Other than when my hubby tried to take me out. Literally.

Saturday mornings we all sleep in. It is tradition in our household to have a big breakfast together .  Hubby is usually the one doing the cooking. These are not fare to be taken like a little girl. We are talking eggs,  potatoes,  toast, meat, and back up meat served in lumbar jack sized proportions. And all fried with an extra side of butter.

I do not wake up to the tantalizing aromas wafting up to my slumbering body but to the loud bellers of ,"MOM! MOM! MOM! COME AND EAT. NOW!"

I shuffle down  the stairs and slump in a stool at our counter and consume the weeks worth of calories disguised as breakfast. That in it's self would of killed an ordinary munkay.

That was just the first step in my honeys plan for my undoing. The covert operation that my boys had concocted was to get me up and out into the boat fishing. Not that I am opposed to the pleasures of fishing in anyway. I bait my own hook. All that. For the first million fishing trips of the season. It's the million and one trip that it gets old. As much as I would like to believe that it is my charming company they want in the boat, I know that I am only half fooling myself. It is just my body they desire. The more bodies in the boat, the higher number of fish they can catch. That and the lunch they know I will pack. Not that I am a bad fisher munkay mind you. I can out fish and out catch the best of them. I just now get twitchy in a confined space .

"So Munkay Bitch (only hubby calls me that), you feel like going out on the boat with us today?", he askes as I sleepily sop my eggs up with my toast. "No." "Maybe you didn't understand, we are going out fishing?" "No." "As a family, all of us, out fishing." "No." "In the boat", he persists. "I'll take you out fishing, you want us to go out more often", he  is trolling patheticly. "No". "I'll let you sit up front?", he wheedles. I always sit in the front, that is no special new privalidge. "Ummm....NO", I answer waving my bacon with dismissal. This starts the "Please go fishing chant." Please go fishing- please go fishing-please go fishing." I could barely finish my hub cap portion of hash browns. The chorus soon deteariates into, "Go fishing- go fishing, repetedly as I leave the room with my tea cup.

I am upstairs brushing my teeth when I hear someone trying to sneak up the stairs. A not-too-subliminal whisper reaches my ears. "Youu want tooo gooo fishinggg", I hear the ghost like voice try to convince me. "You must goo fishinggg". I close and lock my bedroom door as I change into my running bra top and shorts.

When I come back downstairs I see they already have the boat trailer hooked to our truck and the boys are inside it waiting to go. Hubby is filling the cooler with boat survival food from the fridge, regardless to the fact that after all we just had eaten, we would not need to feed again for another month or so. I plop down on the floor and began lacing up my Nikes.

"Last chance Munkay, boats heading out", he tries one last time. "Nope, got things to do, is my final answer".  "I'm no longer asking, I'm telling you, get in the boat", he says now standing over me. "Got places to go", I reply as I'm finishing the last lace.  Nice of him to wait until I was properly shod until he jumped on top of me.  He used a bunge cord to tie my arms over my head to the pedestal leg of the dining room table. I snorted with laughter as he did, knowing I was in no immediate danger. He couldn't possible drag me and the table out to the boat. If I just lay calmly he would leave and I would be able to unknot the cord with a little effort. "Still not fishing here", I taunt his backside from my floor view.

Then that creator of fire and brimstone walked back to the fridge and pulled a can of Redi Whip out. Still not upset I'm thinking, "Yum, oh threaten me with that." As he walked to my prone form, shaking the can,  I realized my entire navel was venerably exposed. Hubby squirts a little in his mouth, letting it ooze out the sides of his mouth so he looks like a rapid critter. Exaggeratedly he lickes it off and rolls his eyes wildly. I am screaming like a maniac and pulling my legs up in a feeble fetal position trying to protect my midrift. My begs of mercy go unheeded as kids are sitting out in the truck waiting to go.  Hub grabs my ankles and pulls them strait as I flop crazily like a fish out of water. He then pins down on my legs and  fills my belly button with cream.  Wagging his tongs like the snake that he is he starts lapping the fluff out of my middle. At this point I'm making inhuman noises and trying not to pee my lycra shorts. Honey had not bothered to shave that morning so next he is tickling my stomach with his grizzle which evolves into belly fart kissing.  Maybe it was the sounds of a wounded elk I was bleeting, or the fact that the boys had waited long enough, but they came bursting through the door near us.  At first the sight of their father with whipped cream smeared all over his face, or me tied to our table with a bellyful, they stopped short. But only for a heartbeat. They dropped to their knees  to get in a lick in too.

In the end I did go out fishing. Once I  stopped hyperventalating and changed my clothes, I even enjoyed myself. Just goes to prove, you catch more munkays with whip cream, than honey.  It's all how you ask.