light my fire

My husband was being a sweetheart. He knew that I was having a horrible day, the kind of day where the kids body slam one another, force each other to the ground and poke their fingers in the other person's eyes just so they can make them cry (now repeat this over and over and over).

I think in his mind he was setting up for this spa atmosphere; dark bedroom; bed uncharacteristically made with the wrinkles smoothed out and oh boy, the candles; a freakish amount of candles: tea lights on top of both dressers, on the shelves, on his nightstand and on mine.

I walked in and laughed (at least, I believe that I laughed because I'm not the type of person to take these candle-lit efforts too seriously). I jumped on the bed, cradled my chins in my heads and looked up at my husband. From the opposite side of the room, my husband smiled back at me then ever so slowly, I watched his smile turn into this look of horror.

I'm like: What the heck? I'm not even naked! Here I am all embellishing this for an extra long back massage stressed out and what do I get; this look of disgust. Thanks Buddy-Boy, this ain't leading to anything else. Promise.


Then I watched him in slow motion; him jumping up, scrambling around the bed and grabbing the corner of the down comforter by my feet. Yep, our comforter was lit up like a backyard barbecue. My husband's trying to grab it from me and run it into the bathroom, I'm trying to grab it from him, attempting to smother it between my hands. My Girl Scout instincts must have kicked in along with my brute force, because I won and smothered the flaming comforter out.

Yes, the whole scenario really was awesome for de-stressing.

At least now I'm feeling all lucky for not getting set on fire from my husband's romantic spa-night-in and my husband... well, at least one of us was lucky that night.