(Sounds of struggle followed by frantically fleeing foot steps)
Okay, so I got away from the super epic amazing non-germaphobe mom that is my wife. So here’s the deal. If I had a dime for every baby wipe she mauled the kids’ hands and faces with, I could buy an island. An island that didn’t exist until we dumped a million Ferraris into the ocean to create the base for our artificial tropical getaway.
Where am I going with this? This picture still makes very little sense, right? Patience.
My wife loves animals. More than that though, she loooooooves horses. She used to rock out with a riding helmet and jodhpurs. I know, right? WTF are jodhpurs? You know them, you just didn’t know they had a name that sounded like someone trying to say “joggers” with a bag of marbles in their mouth while holding their tongue.
Side note, I think jodhpurs were probably intended to act as air dams to create drag for uppity horses that wanted to repeatedly smash the genitals of people like me against a hard saddle. But I’m no horse whisperer. I’m more of a screamer when it comes to horses and repeated genital smashing, to be honest.
So. What? Oh yes! The point!
The point is, despite the fact that my wife loves all creatures great and small (yes, even that show), and is very whispery and not at all screamy about animals, she’ll have baby wipes out in .000281 seconds when the kids have been touchy-petty with non-human beasties. Petting zoos, kissy dogs being walked about town, house cats in homes we visit, even horses.
It hasn’t happen yet, though, the horses. Not that unexpected giant tentacular horse tongue lick, but if it DID? Oh man. For her, mentally, that would be like jamming cold hands into lava for sure. Like I said, I’ve seen my wife’s riding helmet in the depths of our closet. When she was younger, she was into dressage and reining. Which has nothing to do with S&M, by the way, despite the impression the riding crop she owned might imply. They’re fancy horseback riding terms, just yawn like me and move on.
It would definitely be a conflicted reaction for my wife to see Ed the horse get all French on the first date with one of the kids. That’s where the screaminess would enter in. She’d either love/hate it or she’d hate/love it before she tore some of her clothes off and soaked the shreds in her own spit and began scrubbing.
My wife can’t be bargained with. She can’t be reasoned with. When it comes to dirt and germs she doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And she absolutely will not stop, ever, until germs are dead.
So basically I’m saying I cannot WAIT for a for a horse to lick one of my kids. I guess. The moral of this story that actually wasn’t really a story is: um… can I get back to you on that one? I may or may not be distracted at present picturing my gorgeous cybernetic wife tearing her clothes off.