Getting Screwed . . .



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"Honey, I have a screw in my pants," hubs mentioned as we got the kiddies ready for bed.

"What?!"  I asked as I struggled to pull a pj top over Ellerie's squirmy head.

And then he repeated it.  S-l-o-w-l-y.  "I have a screw in my pants.  Right . . . now . . ."

I instantly stopped what I was doing and began to giggle. I shot him a knowing look, a wink, and then I purposefully looked over at our children.

He ignored me and continued with his screw talk.  "You know . . . it's about two inches long, right?"

And then I burst out laughing.

"Two inches?  Two inches?!?  That's it?"  I wasn't trying to insult his manhood, but THAT was supposed to be enticing?  I . think. not.

He chuckled at my reaction, and then asked with his eyes twinkling, "Annie, what did you think that I was talking about?"

I am fairly certain that I blushed, because it is one of those annoying things that I do, as I gave him a very definitive, "Umm.  You know . . . well . . ."  And then an irritated, "Don't make me spell it out!"

He laughed.

I waited.

Finally, he explained, "I wore these warm up pants the last time that I was working in the house.  I put a 2 inch screw in my pocket, but apparently there was a hole in the pocket and the screw is now trapped in the lining of  my pants."

Nice.

Now that's a screw of a different color.