Bless his heart

DH and I were taking pup for training this weekend, and the conversation turned to aprons as it rarely does.

I had found some adorable aprons on sale, but resisted buying one.  DH has a thing for women in aprons. I think it's the whole "Susy Homemaker" thing.  Barefoot, not pregnant, and cooking.  That's me lately. Anyway, DH was all excited because he thought  I meant manly aprons - the kind with bottle openers and barbed wire built in.  I did not.  I meant frilly feminine aprons that made me feel all 50's housewife.

DH sighed.  "At least I still have the apron from my mom."

Oh dear lord.  Have I told you guys about this apron?

From the front, normal apron.  Nice pattern, big pockets.  Then you look at it a little closer.  Something seems.... amiss.  Something seems.... different.  Something seems... bulging.  So you look a little closer.  The apron flaps up in the brisk breeze from the kitchen fan.

And you see them.  Twigs and berries.  Mr. Goodwrench and the Michelin Brothers.  The family jewels.  This apron has a fake set of male genitalia made from pantyhose and pillow stuffing attached.

My husband and brother-in-law love this apron.  Which brings us to the next point:

"Matthew and I are going to be be fighting over that apron. It's the best apron in the world."

I peered at this adorable man I married over the top of my sunglasses.  "Matthew can have it.  If it makes it into our house, Mr. Apron will be singing soprano post surgical removal of his business."

DH glared at me.  "You wouldn't dare.  Q, that apron is a work of art.  Would you go hacking away at a Monet with a scalpel?  No.  It takes real genius to create something like that."

Wait.

Hold the phone.

Did my husband just equate Monet to a pantyhose penis apron?

I made the right decision on procreation.