Holly Homemaker Ho — yo!

It fluttered, temptingly, when my friend, Amy, and I opened the door to our favorite gift shop.

Not this particular one, but similar — vintage, colorful and cheery:



And then I realized: Ohmigod, I am caressing an apron.

So not my image. So not my thing.

So likely to encourage Hubs in his nightly amorous endeavors.

For some reason, there's something about my presence in a kitchen that brings out the wild man in my spouse. Maybe it's the way I wield the tongs, or the smell of singed eyebrows when I lean in a little too close to a burner's gas flame.

Whatever.

When I cook, he lingers. As I pour, he gropes. As I bend over to remove casseroles from the oven, he grabs.

This behavior, of course, makes me certain that Hubs nurtures certain fantasies involving a 1950s cupcake-baking domestic diva.

I am neither domestic nor a diva. Especially in a kitchen.

Still, he persists.

Which is why, even though I will never don it in a kitchen setting, I may purchase the apron anyway.

For Hubs' birthday.

ahem