My Chevy Equinox has car seat heaters. I may have mentioned that because, well, a warm tush is my life. It’s something I’m constantly striving for. I don’t know why; I was just made that way. Besides, who wants a cold rump? No one, that’s who.
Whenever Troy and I go somewhere, he likes to drive. I don’t know if its a manly-man thing (“I’ve got this, little lady, you just sit there n look purty.”), or a control freak thing (“I got this, period.”), a selfish thing (“I don’t care if it IS your car, I want to drive!”) or a fear thing (“Oh hell no you aren’t driving!”). Most of the time, I don’t mind. I’m a multi-tasker, and nothing is more fun for me than beading or reading or talking on the phone while getting driven around like a princess. ‘Course, of the three of those things, only the phone doesn’t make me car sick….. but that is for another post.
And since he is driving, I find I have time on my hands to mess with him. (Insert Collective Gasp Here.) Often, its something as stupid as tickling the back of his neck, or switching the coffee cups so instead of taking a swig of his manly-man black, he gets my Mocha (extra whip, please). But other times, when I am feeling particularly impish, I turn his car seat heater onto full blast.
Troy does not like a warm fanny. Troy does not like his butt to be called a fanny, either.
It takes a few moments for the seat to really get cranking, and by the time he figures out that his tush is hot, it’s too late. Usually it goes like this: he looks down to see I’ve done it again, he flicks the heater to off, and calls me, his wife, his one and only, the love of his life…a Retard.
And then he chuckles.
Good lord I love the way he chuckles.
Darn near the best feeling in the world for me is making this serious guy, this man who seems to carry the world on his shoulders, who makes other people’s problems his own, laugh.
And if a hot petootie is the way I accomplish it, so be it.
Troy does not like his butt to be called a petootie, either.