By Brittany Ann on December 16, 2010
BlogHer Original Post
My husband and I shower together.
Which sounds all kinds of sexy.
Except that it's not.
Because the hubs works a lot, we don't have a ton of time together. So we try and spend what few moments we have during the week with each other.
Even if that means he and I hop in the shower together at the same time, spending our bathing time rinsing and repeating, lathering and scrubbing, and -- hold onto your hats, ladies! -- talking about our days.
It's not at all racy, really.
We've been known to cover the power bill, the grocery list, family disputes, and vacation plans, all while rub-a-dub-ing next to each other.
You'd hardly know we're naked, we're so into the respective self-cleaning and boring, hum-drum talking we do while in there.
It's the most un-thrilling shower scene known to man.
Except for last weekend.
We'd spent several days ready-ing the house for Christmas. We'd put up the tree and festooned the various mantles and all that.
To help get us in the mood, we'd listened to Christmas tunes while doing so. It was pretty standard. Pretty All-American.
And, then, we hit the showers.
We began our squabbles about You-Know-Who hogging all the water spray, and I "accidentally" managed to bean You-Know-Who over the head with my shower gel bottle after he refused to let me warm up the water.
But soon enough, we settled into our peaceful chit-chat and self-cleaning routine.
All the while, in between soap breaks and conversation starts and stops, I began humming Christmas carols.
Songs we'd heard earlier that day. Classic Christmas ditties everyone knows.
But, seeing as I was totally into the Christmas spirit, I didn't just hum them.
Heck, I didn't even just sing them.
Instead, I put on a full-on show, drumming away on the shower curtain, the tile walls, the shampoo dispenser, and, well, my butt.
Yes, my butt.
In the moment, you see, it made sense. I was looking for wet, flat surfaces that gave off a resounding bang.
Enter my behind: The perfect percussive instrument.
In fact, I loved my butt-drum so much that, soon, I forgot the shower walls and curtain all together. I even cast aside the shampoo dispenser.
Instead, I chose to drum solely and exclusively on it, my own rump.
It really did the trick, in fact. So much so that I soon stopped humming and singing the carols all together.
I just drummed them out on my own hiney. Over and over and over again.
It must say something about my marriage that my husband didn't even bat an eye when I went all Blue Man Group on my own rumpus for 10 minutes straight.
In fact, it wasn't until I yelled out exuberantly, "Guess which carol I'm drumming!" that he even said anything at all.
And then, and only then, did he join into my craziness. But not by mocking me.
Instead, he listened to my drum beat intently, carefully.
Dum-da-dumdum-dum! Dum-da-dumdum-dum! Dum-dum-da-da-da-dummmmm!
Then he yelled out:
"Here Comes Santa Claus!"
And he was dead on. That was, in fact, the song I'd been drumming.
This only encouraged me more.
Which is why I then performed "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," "Frosty the Snowman," and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," all in quick succession for my new, genuinely pleased audience of one.
All, still, on my own butt.
He guessed them all correctly, batting four for four, making the game even more fun.
Which is exactly why I then did a rousing round of "Away in a Manger" on not just my butt but on his, as well.
Along with "Silent Night," "The Little Drummer Boy," and "Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire."
He guessed them all correctly.
And then, much to my surprise, he joined in.
Using all four of our cheeks, he put on a grand solo performance of "Jingle Bells" and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."
An actual former drummer himself, his mastery of butt-drums was impressive right off the bat.
His only loss was his poor rendition of "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," which he played only my behind, and which, we both agreed, didn't have the right pitch or surface area to get the desired effect to carry out that particular ditty.
Still, the "caroling" continued.
Until, finally, 20 minutes later, and wrinkled to prunes like toddlers in a tub full of toys, we stopped, mostly because we'd run out of carols.
And just like that, life went back to normal.
I toweled off. He toweled off. We both clambered into pajamas, set up his coffee pot for the following day, and tucked ourselves into bed.
Only 15 minutes later, when we were lying there, in the dark, respectively, did he finally have the nerve to say what we'd both been thinking:
"We just played butt carols for 45 minutes, and they're going to let us have a child next year. Something's wrong with this picture."
I wish I was making this up. Really.
But I'm not. I couldn't.
It was too funny. And, my friends, it actually happened.
I had the smack marks on my behind for four days to prove it.
Living in the Moment
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