I can’t help but think of the frivolous at a time like this, the things that you think about when you don’t want to think about the Giant Head of Tom Ridge polluting your screen at seven-thirty in the a.m.

Honeymoon, 1996: My hair was stop-sign red (Pillarbox for the Bleach Geeks out there), which probably delighted the maids who picked up the white (now pink) towels every morning.

We stayed on Waikiki Beach in some giant, generic hotel.

Mr. Husband, to my sister last week: “When I met your sister, I had ten grand in the bank.” Cry me a freaking river. Where else are you going to find a hot chick who can discuss the pros and cons of Henry James and anal sex, sometimes in the same sentence? Nowhere, that’s where. Oops. TMI.

BUT I DIGRESS.

There we were, having a fabbo time: surf n turf, rental scooters, cheesy tourist traps. I stood out a bit, with my white girl skin and my hair. We went into the only tattoo/pierce parlor on the island, because I was thinking about getting a wedding set put in where no one could see it.

We were browsing around, admiring the ball gags and various items in their boutique, when we walked past a mannequin on a very high shelf, one of those scary male torsos where the paint is chipping off, revealing an even more disturbing “flesh” color underneath.

Mr. Husband has always been a bit of a stomper…he clomps around wherever he goes. He must have set off some vibrations, because I was walking behind him and the next thing I knew the mannequin attacked me. It came right down on my head and I was seeing a few stars. I held my head and went “Ow ow owwwww!” because it felt like I had gotten clipped with something metal. Mr. Husband picked the mannequin up and showed me what was causing the rising lump on my poor head…the mannequin was outfitted with a leather jock strap type-thing that had a penis cage in the front of it.

It was quite funny. We laughed, and left, and the disaffected clerk went on talking on the phone.

We came in a few days later and of course they recognized me with my red hair. I was on the table about to get stuck when the piercer says, “hey, aren’t you the girl who got bonked with the mannequin the other day?”

“Yes, and I’m so glad someone bothered to ask if I was alright!” I laughed.

Everyone has a honeymoon story, I guess. But just imagine what the penis cage looks like in use. Like a saggy whore in fishnets, no doubt.