Poppy Mom

Dispatch From the Hormonal War Front

It's day two of Operation Lactating Eagle, and so far so good. I'm doing much better than I was yesterday. Granted, that can change faster than you can say "nipple cream". But for now, I'm taking advantage of the balance.

It helps that Clara "Naps are for Babies" Jane is currently zonked in her crib like a sailor on the third day of shore leave.

But there are still some hormonal issues. They're trying to blindside me with a stealthy, sweaty weapon: Food TV's Tyler "Sweaty Boy" Florence. Have you ever noticed how much that guy sweats? Damn! If B. even dared to come near me while that sweaty, I'd probably send him to the showers. But on Tyler Florence .... whoa, boy. Bring it on.

So this morning, I was watching Sweaty Boy on Food 911, and I noticed something: everything Sweaty Boy says is dirty. Just filthy, deliciously dirty. Or maybe it's just my hormones. Whatever it is, I decided to keep track of all the inadvertant porn that dribbled from that man's sexy mouth. Now, you look at the list and tell me if it's just me, or if this man is simply sex in a skillet:

-"If it's not juicy enough..." (Oh, Sweaty Boy, it's plenty juicy. Plenty.)

-"Christine loves a big juicy plate of prime rib." (And Poppy loves a big, juicy plate of you, Sweaty Boy.)

(At this point, while discussing a too-rare prime rib, he mooed. He. Fucking. Mooed. Like a big ol' steer looking to mate.)

-"We're looking for the big eye." (Hmmm ... I think I know where we might find it.")

-"I like the roasteed bone flavor." (Not as much as I do, my sweaty friend. Not as much as I.)

-"We've got a lot of meat to season." (Yes, sir!)

-"Grab this end right here and strip it." (Whatever you want, my sweet, sweaty, sweaty man.)

-"Put it on top of this and rub. Not a gentle rub. I'm talking a good massage." (Yes, yes sir!)

(And this was all before the first commercial break.)

-"It looks like a big piece of ginger and it's hot" (Oh, I'm sure it is.)

-"Always taste as you go." (I do, Tyler. I certainly do.)

(He growled. He. Fucking. Growled. But that was nothing. While teaching his pupil the fine art of flipping the contents of a saute pan, he began to pant, "Oh! Oh! Oh oh oh oh oh oh! She's flipping!" And flip, I did.)

-"Turn the heat off so it creams out."

That was all I could take. The hormones have won this battle. After fifteen minutes of Sweaty Boy's oh-so-filthy little mouth, I gave in.

I fetched a quart of Udderly Truffle ice cream, parked my sweaty ass on the living room floor, and dug in.

Progesterone - 1
Brain - 1

Posted by Robin at July 1, 2004 06:47 PM | TrackBack