Happy Fun Friday!
By the time Friday rolls around, my brain pretty much says ba zing and just throws caution to the wind. This bird has flown. Bring on the weekend and all its cleaning/shopping/eating glory. And wine. Maybe some wine.
As a matter of fact, just last night I edited a scene in my novel that involves kissing. Lots of frantic, panicked kissing. Sometimes I feel my kissing scenes are awkward, but I can confidentially share with you all that I made The Hubs act this one out with me when I wrote it. No, it’s not that kind of scene. He wasn’t aware I wrote that kind of scene, even though I was writing it when I was sitting next to him on the couch. And blushing. And turning the laptop away from him so he couldn’t see what I was writing.
The reason I made him “act” this one out was because it started with a kiss to the main character, Elizabeth’s, open palm. For someone reason, this strikes me as hopelessly and terribly romantic. Intimate.
In reality, it was kind of awkward.
“Look, pretend like you have the hots for me.” I instructed. “This is the palm of the woman you love, not the palm of your grandmother.”
He looked at my palm. “I don’t know where that’s been.”
Okay, true. Hands are dirty. Mouths are dirty, but that doesn’t stop people from kissing.
He reluctantly did it again. It was better the second time around, especially since there was far more effort put into it and far less grumbling.
I got my first kiss in the kitchen of our church when I was twelve years old. The Hubs was horrified when I relayed this information to him. “Twelve? Twelve!”
Once he’d sufficiently recovered from the shock, he pointed out I was the pastor’s daughter and that was just out of control. But probably fitting.
He’s probably right.
I’ll be the first to tell you, I enjoy kissing. I can accurately pinpoint when and where Kissing Moments of Record took place, like my second kiss (I was 12 and in the boiler room at the church. Same boy as in the kitchen), first French kiss (16 and in a tunnel of love ride at an amusement park), first kiss with The Hubs (19 and on Culp’s Hill in Gettysburg). I’m weird like that.
I once read a blog post–where, I can’t remember, but if you wrote it let me know so I can link to it–how one of the most intimate moments is the moment right before a kiss. It’s that moment when you inhale the breath they’re exhaling; almost but not quite touching. Ah, romantic.
Then there’s the kisses I’d like to forget. Like, the time my high school boyfriend kissed me after smoking a cigarette. And that, friends, is why I’ve never smoked. Second-hand tongue smoke is a terrible, terrible thing.
Oddly enough, I just realized that “second-hand tongue smoke” actually makes an appearance in my novel. My novel about the civil war. Huh.
I hope that’s the strangest term you hear all day. I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s probably going to be the strangest thing I write all day. But then again, maybe not. It’s Fun Friday and I really can’t be held accountable for shenanigans and weirdness from this point on. Seriously, I have to get it out of my system now before I have to be all demure and reserved at the wedding next week.
Me. Demure. HA!