No, no, it wasn’t the part where I came home on Friday to be met by my naked wife, holding a martini, and armed with a plan for some oral pleasure. (Incidentally, I think I can speak for most guys when I say nothing says “welcome home” like a naked martini and a blowjob).
The Brady part came about on Saturday, when to celebrate a snowstorm, we turned our living room into a beach. We cranked up the heat, filled up the kiddie pool, got out some beach chairs, dug through the attic for summer clothes (bathing suits for the kids, since they were in the pool), fired up the barbecue, some frozen margaritas for the wife and I, filled the CD changer with Jimmy Buffett (taught my 20 month old daughter to do “Fins”…you all can keep your early talkers, walkers and potty-trainers…she’s an early parrot-head)and Beach Boys, and went forth with some inspired family silliness.
Back in college this would have been some “wacky fun”. As a grownup, I can’t help but feel I’m a wide collar and bad perm away from being Mike Brady.