Free The Thong Also Rises by Jennifer L. Leo Page A

Gilligan’s Island and at worst, has been secretly participating in a satanic cult, drinking piping hot cups of urine while I was away at my Monday night yoga class.
    I am wondering whether any of our Caribbean itineraries offer quickie divorces. I am spewing the “P” word uncontrollably. I am turning into Porky Pig with Tourette’s Syndrome.
    â€œW-w-well now what do you suggest? Should I just soak my contact lenses in your p-p-pee ? And what about my cotton balls that are now drenched in your p-p-pee ? How about if I just use your p-p-pee to cleanse my p-p-pores? In fact, why don’t we dump out this whole bottle of Clinique cleanser and you can just re-p-plenish it with your miracle p-p-pee !!!”
    Ever a man of patience, or perhaps soothed by years of drinking urine elixirs behind my back, my husband is finally able to convince me to sit down on the toilet as he lovingly and tenderly wipes the pee off my feet and rinses all of the contents of my bag in warm, soapy water.
    To diffuse the mildly tense start to our vacation, or perhaps to avoid being held captive at sea with a madwoman for seven days, my husband suggests we quell rough waters with a trip above deck to snuggle underneath the stars. Begrudgingly, I agree. I am willing to forgive the watershed of our first evening, at least satisfied that I will have something to hang over his head for the rest of our married lives.
    We grab thick rubber cushions off the lounge chairs and cuddle close under our woolen blankets. The gentle sway of the ship feels like a luxurious king-size waterbed and the zillions of luminescent stars winking in the sky are my personal pay-per-view movie. I am gently lulled to sleep in my husband’s arms, dreaming of a cocoa-butter tan and sun-teased blond highlights that will be the envy of all my co-workers.
    With each passing day, I am adjusting to my floating Winnebago lifestyle. Our cabin quarters have been transformed to a cozy, cool underground bunker after too many hours basting in the hot Caribbean sun. I am even enjoying my lower bunk. It is surprisingly refreshing to have a few evenings of respite from the fog of my husband’s breath against my face. Still, I relish the comfort of having him near and knowing he is just one bed above me, sleeping in what I have affectionately dubbed “The Loft.”
    My inner pirate is thriving. I help hoist sails, drink more than my fair share of rum swizzles, and disco dance on Lingerie Night in teddy bear pjs, the cool, weathered teak floors tingling under my bare feet. Captain Casey, or just Casey, as he prefers to be called, commands the Polynesia with a charismatic blend of machismo and cutting comedy, salting his daily stories with expletives and edgy wisecracks that leave us in stitches. In keeping with his religious objection to formalities, he prefers baseball hats and tropical shirts to officer dress. One evening after sunset and swizzles, he sets up the floodlights and diving board so we can swim right off the side of the boat. It is an exhilarating experience, but when Casey suddenly grabs the ship microphone and bellows out to us, “Look out! Shark!… Just kidding!” my insides freeze for a nano-second, but then I am laughinghysterically. Life just shouldn’t be taken so seriously, you know what I mean?
    It is our last day at sea. As much as I am looking forward to resuming our conjugal sleeping arrangements, I’m also sorry to leave. Disco dancing will never be quite the same, and I’ll miss Casey’s antics and his most vigilant Windjammer edict “No whining!” which seems written expressly for recovering prima donnas like me.
    Later that night my husband awakens from a deep sleep needing to use the bathroom in a way that men of a certain age always do. Not wanting to wake me (perhaps still skittish from my minor proclivity to certain irrational tendencies), he gently closes the bathroom door behind him without