Bristol Palin, Abstinence & Pot Pie

Much ado has been made about the Obamas’ trip to NYC last month for a Broadway show, and, as I have said before, as if the Obama's getting their swerve on in the White House isn’t enough, the New York Times ran an interesting article titled, “If they can find time for date night…”

The general gist of the piece claimed to be “a presidential elbow to the ribs of husbands” and quoted many long married couples about the pitfalls of keeping romance alive. While I read the wistful musing of spouses (mostly wives) wishing for more alone time together, I realized that I didn’t share the sentiment.

It’s not that I wouldn’t like a grand romantic gesture, what girl wouldn’t? But, I’d like to think that there is something more to it than just the occasional night on the town together. Isn’t it really what you make of your time together – whether you are having a discussion at a restaurant or over the kitchen table; or watching a movie in a theater or on your own couch - that fills that romantic void? You don’t need Air Force One to make an impression, or in my husband’s case just flowers…and food.

With thoughts of romance running through his head, my husband came home, last Friday, bearing gifts - a bouquet of flowers, a box of condoms and a chicken pot pie. I gave him a long hard look and tried to piece together the riddle, because nothing quite says “romance” like an assortment of Trojans, puff pastry and freshly cut sunflowers. Yet, it worked….and later, in the throes of passion, both of us knowing that we were rolling the family planning dice (hence the condoms), my husband whispered seductively into my ear, “Let’s make a baby.” (Usually, it would have seemed kinda sexy… okay maybe just sexy in a cheesy ‘70’s, Larry Dallas “Three’s Company,” big gold medallion way, but I’ll roll with it, just don’t tell my husband…) This time, however, he must have seen the look of utter fear fall across my face and he immediately recanted. “Okay, well, not really….um, just kidding….psyche!” And with the cagey reflexes of a mountain lion, he flung himself off of me, into the air and in the general direction of the hiding place of the latex cache.

As I watched his silhouette hopping back and forth in the moonlight….hoping he won’t totally kill the mood by breaking a toe on the dresser (yeah, we were kickin’ it old school, lights off and all….I suppose that the only thing missing was a Barry White 8 track, black satin sheets and glasses filled with Crown Royal on ice)….I could not help but think of the Dr. Seuss book, “Hop On Pop,” except my current situation, was more like “Hop Off Pop….don’t get off…hop off NOW!” Not a typical scenario by any means, just a factor in the birth control crossroads that I have found myself at yet again - I don’t want to get the tubes tied (definitely not after my neighbor's recent experience!), he's not ready to wear the "cone of shame" and the clock is ticking on our current solution (whole other post!)…which needs to be addressed asap!

You see, my husband and I have never quite gotten the birth control thing right. In my early 20’s, my doctors informed me that that when we did decide to have children, it would take longer than normal to conceive. We took the news as more of birth control pass than anything, and found out quickly that both we and the doctors were wrong. Boy, were we all wrong! It just so happened that my uber-fertile Irish peasant genes kicked in at age 25 and we had one hell of a mind blowing holy shit moment in the car after the first OB appointment. We were just shy of our 1st wedding anniversary and I’ll never forget how scared and overwhelmed I felt, looking down at all the forms for my blood work, the hospital registration information and the “Next Nine Months” book we were given. But as history is doomed to repeat itself, so were we and 22 months after the birth of baby #1, along came baby #2.

Now you would think that a young family with two children, a girl and a boy, would have been enough. We had two healthy children and were moving into a new house. So why throw a third into the mix? But I did and in a perfect storm of sorts I switched birth control options from the pill to the patch, left the kids with my parents, and packed up for a child -free vacation in Hawaii for a friends wedding. FYI – don’t use any form of patch – bug repellent, smoking, weight loss, etc – when going to the lushest, wettest state in the union. Regardless of what the box says or whatever is written on the fine print packaging insert, the patch will NOT, I repeat, WILL NOT stay-on while golfing, river kayaking, hiking to a waterfall, snorkeling, wine tasting, sightseeing, horseback riding, kite boarding, indulging in a full-body seaweed wrap at the hotel spa, sleeping, changing your clothes, listening to your iPod, flying in an airplane, eating lunch on a veranda or any other daily vacation activity. While we left two behind, we came back with one more….and lets just say baby #3 (now known as Crazy Man, he of the drawn on eyebrows) could have easily been named Aloha Kona. Or as my friend, who is a native Hawaiian and whose wedding we went to, likes to remind me, “Wow, they always said Hawaii was the land of romance….now you have proof!”

But I digress, and getting back to the end of my bedroom “date night” hijinx, I suppose Bristol Palin is right - the only sure fire birth control is abstinence. The concept is really quite simple - no intercourse, no conception. The problem, however, is that abstinence is unrealistic. In our modern world abstinence is somewhat of a punch line. It is a quaint silly by-gone notion like churning butter or listening to a song on vinyl. Why go through all the steps – We are an “Instant Gratification Nation” and nobody wants to wait for anything anymore. Is there an iPhone app abstinence and if so would you really want to download it? In the meantime, I will try to put it into practice, but it will ultimately be in vain... for Friday is just around the corner and I’m sure it will bring another bouquet and quite possibly another pot pie.

Selling Sex To The Suburbs - Part III

Editor's Note: This is the final part of a 3 part essay. Please click on the links to read Part I and Part II.

The polarizing point was not the marketing and selling of a monthly sex toy service, but the act of talking about it…out loud. More volatile, I found, than politics, or religion, the topic of sex had no middle ground. An invisible line was drawn between two factions: those who talk about it and those who do not.

Just as Hester Prynne was ostracized for her sexual indiscretions, I was starting to believe I was wearing a large scarlet “pocket rocket” across my breast. The reactions were always the same: disappointment, repulsion, and more often than not, intrigue. A wink and a knowing nod seemed to confer that I was in the club, a fellow user, too. I felt oddly cool.

Then, there were others who were a little too eager, too over zealous. “I guess you have to try those, huh?” Some even offered too much information. For example, I quickly found out that my quiet, mild mannered, brother-in-law was not only a budding wine enthusiast, but a walking encyclopedia regarding the adult entertainment business. On demand, he could quote Playboy articles, bios of Stern Show regulars and upcoming dates of porn conventions.

Yet, like a dumb-struck fifth grader, I could not tell my parents about my new area of expertise.
For over a month, my mother would continually ask me about my work. I’d always hide the truth in generalizations. Finally, one morning over coffee, I couldn’t self-edit anymore. “Mom, haven’t you and dad wondered why I haven’t told you what I’m doing and who I work for?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but we were sure you had your reasons.” I looked at her and thought, well, here goes and began my pitch. She sucked in air and covered her mouth. I couldn’t tell if she was going to hyperventilate and was pretty sure that the only words she had heard were “intimate,” and “fruit-of-the- month.” She leaned in and whispered, “You mean they sell…vibrators?” Her tone was low and nervous, as someone of her generation would whisper “cancer” when talking of a friend’s illness. Saying it, but not really saying it, because of an invisible, unsavory element. “Oh, my! I just don’t understand why someone would get into that business.”

She quickly recovered and I was surprised she knew what I was talking about.
“There’s a lot of money to be made, mom. Sex still sells, even when the economy doesn’t.” In the end, I had gotten too familiar with the words, terminology and discussion points. It no longer shocked me and I no longer cared if I shocked others. I could tell she didn’t buy my rationalization, even if it was the truth. Now it was my mother's turn to blush magenta. I had broken her extraneous commandment and realized I could not compartmentalize and closet something I had jumped into whole heartedly.

Sex is a unique common denominator. It is a basic function of human nature from which all genders, religions, ages, ethnicities and sexual persuasions can not escape. You are either doing it or you're not. There are no gray areas; no places to hide.

Selling Sex To The Suburbs - Part II

Editor’s Note: This is the second installment of a 3 part essay. To read Part I, please click here.

“It’s from your client,” he said. “I think we need to open it up.” I blushed a deep shade of magenta. It flushed my face and left a burning sensation behind my knees. Talking with great bravado about the items was one thing, but using them was entirely another. I pressed my back firmly into the chair. While I am not Mother Theresa in the bedroom, I am not Indiana Jones either, so it was no surprise to my husband when I looked away, shook my head and mumbled, “No.” Internally, I heard my mother’s voice saying, “Do not do it!”

“How can you possibly talk about this service without actually having used any of the products?” he said as the negotiations began. “How do you know if they work?” he said as he ripped the packing tape off the box and ceremoniously pulled out an elegant silver mesh bag.

“We are not The Brady Bunch. This is not the laundry detergent episode where they test the product before they decide to be in the commercial…” my rebuttal was in vain as a fit of giggles washed over me. I was back in Mrs. Anderson’s fifth grade health class on the first day of sex education. “It’s a penis, girls,” she said. “P-E-N-I-S! It’s a fact, let’s all get over it. Get all the laugher and comments out now, before we move down to the scrotum.” Sitting in a small classroom with 25 other girls, I was mortified with shock and embarrassment. I could not have imagined our homeroom teacher, Sr. Catherine, who always smelled faintly of Clorox in her prim navy blue habit, talking to us this way. I collapsed in a hysterical fit of laughter at the thought and spent the rest of the afternoon in the principal’s office to calm down and ponder how I would tell my parents of my transgressions.

Why then, at age 35, after over 12 years of intimate encounters that produced 3 children, could I not look my husband in the eye or explain how I felt, the very same way I couldn’t look or speak about my sex ed. hysterics to my mother. As I spied the bag in the palm of my husband’s outstretched hand, it did not seem so bad. On looks alone it could easily be listed as one of Oprah’s favorite things.

“Aha!” my husband cried, as if he struck gold, panning through the elaborate packing shred and dumping the rest of the contents with great flourish onto the Laura Ashley comforter. There, staring up at me amid a background of pastel cabbage roses, it was – big, purple and plastic - with all the batteries included. I had never seen anything like it up close and I thought I would go blind. This was definitely not what Mrs. Anderson had in mind all those years ago. But, as she was divorced and seemed quite a woman of the world to an eleven year old, I’m sure she would have approved.

Over the course of the next few weeks, my initial mortification paled to the reception I got when floating out my new career at my various suburban activities – dinner parties, volunteer meetings and the bus stop. When asked, “Who is your new client?” or “How’s the job going?” I would take a deep breath and slowly explain the service in broad terms. “It’s like a wine of the month club, or Harry & David’s fruit of the month club,” I would begin, “but instead of gourmet baskets of individually wrapped pears and oranges…” Sometimes the record would just skip and they would get it with an “oh...OHH!” Of course, some people would need more description before the light bulb would go on and the discussion would end promptly when I would state, “sex toys.”

While it was always hard to gauge how people would react, whether I used the items or not was not the issue. To most, I was already guilty by association without explanation or evidence. “I gotcha!” was the quick response and I would feel a slight, awkward twitch as the person moved away. I even detected a hint of fear cross one friend’s face. She didn’t know if she should move or cover the ears of the two-year old in her lap when she asked, “You aren’t doing any of this with the kids at home?” Did she think my laptop was now a 24/7 porn portal? “We do have a lock on the bedroom door,” was my wry reply.   To be continued....

Selling Sex To The Suburbs - Part I

Editor's Note: The following essay was originally submitted to the New York Times Sunday Styles "Modern Love" column. Previously unpublished, the piece will be posted in three parts. It is the story of how one woman went back to work, started a blog and confronted a host of issues regarding the mere act of talking about sex.....

It started with the exchange of a business card. A quick flick of the wrist, and flash of cardstock. It was smooth and alluring to touch. Absent-mindedly, I flipped it over in my hand as I held it. When I glanced down to scan the logo, a large, modern font loomed up at me. The letters spilled across the small space, crowding each other. “Intimate Surprises” it read. The sound of the words lingered in my head in the same lilting way one remembers the sound of fingers sweeping across piano keys. My first impression had been sophisticated and provocative. My reaction was immediate. I was hooked.

“Ever thought about getting out of this business?” a business contact had asked my husband earlier over coffee. After the obligatory small talk about the economy and the state of the financial services industry, he leaned in rather conspiratorially and said, “My wife and I have started a recession proof business.” The card would pass from him to my husband to me. I was looking to get back into consulting and they were looking to aggressively market their service. It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.

As my husband walked back to his office, the “IS” card in his front pocket, he immediately got me on my cell phone, “I think I have an interesting job prospect for you. It could be a little racy. I’ll email you the details.” I was out on errands, but my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I turned the car around and made a beeline for home. By the time I had placed the key in the front door, I had built up mountains of speculation as to what this new venture could be…lingerie, adult-themed birthday greetings, or was it just a weird, sexy twist on anti-bacterial soap?

I leapt onto Google as fast as my laptop could boot up and my fingers could type. Then, there it was…an idea that could transcend the very nature of what it was selling. An idea that would bring - as Victoria’s Secret did with the satin, underwire, push-up bra - adult relationship enhancing accoutrements or “sex toys,” for short, discreetly into the top dresser drawers of middle class Americans everywhere.

A week passed before I could muster up the nerve to call regarding my potential services. I had taped the card to my computer screen. It stood out from the myriad of “to do” notes and taunted me. When I finally reached the IS office on the phone, the wife made it sound so easy, so normal, and so new. I was drawn to her energy and the bouncy rhythm of her voice as the exotic terminology of glides, vibes, and lubes rolled off her tongue.

I felt like Eve being led slowly down the garden path and knew in that instant my narrow sexual worldview, shaped by an adolescence of Catholic guilt and an adulthood of cashmere sweater sets and kitten heels, was about to change forever. As a teen, the big “birds and bees talk” with my mother consisted of four words, “Do not do it!” My potential client, on the other had, was very cool and convincing – she was the big sister secretly sharing a dog-eared copy of Judy Blume’s “Forever.” I was beginning to realize that there was a whole group of people out there exploring various levels intimacy, and I, by my own censure, was missing out.

We had talked at length about the company’s underlying challenge: how to talk about sex, without really talking about it. Yet, days later, as I sat brainstorming palpable relationship terminology, those three letters, S-E-X, hung off my tongue in a silent noose. Each time I tried wording that seemed commonplace, despite the risqué nature, I couldn’t help but picture a scene from the Electric Company, in which two silhouetted heads are sounding out a three letter word. One says the harsh consonant “s”, while the other follows up with “ex.” However, unlike a word such as “cat” that would be easily sounded out and all the letters quickly placed together, the “s” and “ex” hang in limbo, unmoving and far apart.

“Will I be able to bridge that gap?” I thought as my husband gamely came up behind me with a silly grin on his face and a non-descript, cardboard box under one arm......(to be continued)

Sober People Don’t Do That!

It was just after midnight when I got out of the car. House keys in hand, I wobbled off in the general direction of the door. “Okay,” I told myself, “I can do this. Must keep the pants buttoned until the coast is clear.” The internal pep talk ended as I straighten my sweater and neatly arranged pieces of hair behind my ears. I tightly gripped the wad of cash in my hand and kept mentally rehearsing what was beginning to sound like an implausible alibi. I was giggley, woosey and couldn’t think straight. Like a teen coming home well past curfew, I tentatively entered the house. “Hi. How were they? Did they give you any trouble? Did they go to bed on time?” I said in one rapid fire sentence. Smiling hard at the babysitter, I was trying to look and act my most serious, my most adult, my most sober. And it was VERY hard. I couldn’t focus on a word the girl said, as my thoughts were racing…How many glasses of the Benzinger did I have? How many beers followed? Why did I only eat 3 scallops and the amazingly decadent cheesecake? Since when did the chandelier in the entry way swing in circles?

We don't go out that often, and when we do, I always end up wondering the next day what possessed me to drink so much. See, I always fancied myself as a friendly, slightly incoherent Sinatra-singing drunk, who would jovially repeat her stories, dance very badly and become an extremely close talker…or in my earlier years, to some degree publicly disrobe. (Don’t worry it wasn’t in an “Old School" – Frank the Tank, streaking kind of way…more like an all of these tequila shots have made it really, really hot in here vibe.) This night, however, the sitter didn't seem as nervous as the other ones, and accepted the outstretched money (always with an extra hour or two tacked on for tip) without the bewildered looks I have grown accustomed to getting. "I think we are in the clear," I began to say in my head, hand poised on my belt buckle. Then my husband came in. “Arrghble…blurble? Good?” He said. “Drive safe!” I said as she quickly ran out the door. “Darble…ack…snurp,” he said, mumbling like the toddler in my 5 year-old’s book “Knuffle Bunny."

As I climbed the stairs, shoes, clothes and jewelry in hand - (oh so what, old habits die hard...the kids were asleep, the sitter had peeled out of the driveway and my husband was talking like Bob Dylan on acid to a small cactus in our kitchen…and it WAS really, really hot in our house, I was free to get as nekkid and esoteric as I pleased) – two things came to my mind, first a quote about drinking by Ernest Hemmingway, “Always do sober what you say you’ll do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut;” and the mantra “sober people don’t do that!” The latter was a silly battle cry a college freshman year roommate and I would say to help us make the long walk from the bus stop to our dorms after a night of drinking scorpion bowls, $1 drafts or contraband kegs of Harpoon at off campus parties with “older guys”….Saying it repetitively and at the top of our lungs, made us think that we were sober….even if it only confirmed to everyone else that we were not. Looking back, my college education taught me, often the hard way, that there are many things that sober people do and don’t do.

"Top Ten Things Sober People Don't Do".

10) Wake up in the middle of the night and pee in other people’s closets

9) Kiss a butt ugly, no REALLY fugly guy just because he’s on the football team

8) Race large beatles under bottle caps for money

7) Stuff Munchkins into mailboxes as a present for the mail carrier the next morning

6) Buy into the whole "Fourth meal" thing and eat low grade meat by products from Taco Bell, roast beef of any kind, chicken wings or any other spicey food sold out of a cart.

5) Organize a group of people to write birthday wishes to a friend in Sharpie marker on their collective backsides (there is photographic evidence of this, it does not involve me, but I will pay handsomely for a copy)

4) Harass your future wife for a $2.00 cover charge (hey it was the early 90s!) at a party wearing a “Just Do Me!” t-shirt

3) Hook up with your future husband because he "looked cute" in the "Just Do Me!" shirt...or maybe you just mistook him for another fugly football player...

2) Scream obscenities out the window at clergy (not proud of that one)

1) Partially disrobe in front of your future sister in-law (the first time you meet her) because it was too hot out.....in March.....on an outdoor basketball court.....

Editor's Note: Over time, I have come to justify the last point as a subliminal fashion intervention....it was 1992, I still had remnants of late '80s hair and was wearing a bright red (Ronald McDonald red) wool blazer with a black rayon blouse with obnoxiously large white polka dots, jeans with some kind of faded wash and black cowboy boots....I'm sure there was a cableknit twin set in the back of my closet screaming to be worn.

Doing the recap on the latest installment of Friday "soccer parents night out", it was hard to find the one drink or one defining moment when we transformed from sober to silly. To our friends in the bar, we both seemed the very model of collected and coherent. I’m sure there was in depth discussion about stimulus packages, when Obama will wear a Snuggie, cures for malaria, the layoffs on Sesame Street and other major problems afoot in the world. Then, all of a sudden, it was time to go. The clock was ticking and the babysitter was about to turn into a very sour pumpkin if we stayed out any later. We had to be responsible...we had the kids to think about...the eight year old had the dreaded 8:30am soccer game. The crowded, dimly lit bar was like Oz – no flying monkeys or Tin Men, but slightly smokey, technicolor and surreal. Nothing seemed to touch us: not the wine, the beer or the lack of solid food in our stomachs. But after saying “goodbye” and crossing the threshold into the cold night air, it was like we clicked our heels. We were suddenly in black and white Kansas…but where was the damn Yellow Brick road to get us home? Next thing I know, I am at our door, rehearsing my questions for the sitter.

After his final goodnights to"Arthur the Cactus" in the kitchen, my husband slowly worked his way up the stairs, mumbling several obscenities about the early soccer game in the morning. Although I can't be absolutely certain, I am pretty sure we got busy that night, as I was lying naked and incoherent on the bed and have been known to barter sex to get out of taking the kids to the early soccer game...(plus for my husband, seeing me lying there drunk and without clothes on must have been like being at Disney with no line at Space Mountain....it's too good to pass up the ride even if it's gonna make you puke!). Just before I passed out, I remembered to make note of another thing sober people don't do: accidentally slip the babysitter an extra $100 instead of an extra $20 as an added tip....

Take the Baba Wawa Cha-Cha Chow-wenge

An open letter to MSNBC “Morning Joe” co-host, Mika Brzezinski, from Barbara Walters as part of a growing vibratory rift between the two powerhouses:


Dear Mika,

My good friend Fidel Castro once told me that "when it comes to sex toys, everyone is a comedian". So you can imagine how surprised I was at your utter distaste for my witty bon mot on Monday’s show. After all it is 2009 and we are living in a post-SITC (Sex In The City) world. Did Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha not teach you a thing or two about a well placed "rabbit"? No need for "Mr. Big" in this discussion, especially where my co-host Joy Behar is concerned....

Perhaps "stimulus" is on the tip of everyone's tongue these days, but in my experience when you get four cranky women grousing around a table and it’s only a matter of time before a vibrator rears is large pulsating head. Really, I mean what are Joe and Willie really going to gab with you about while sitting at the news desk? I’m going to guess the Seinfeld “swirl” move episode is not a topic of discussion.

Much ado about nothing has been made from a wise ass crack from Joy and my quick witted response. I didn’t even utter the big bad “v” word or "dildo", "schlong", or "mommy pleaser" for that matter. But as someone might cryptically ask “do you burn?” when asking if you smoke the reefer, I surmise that you have never “zzzzzzz-ed” a four-speed Joy Stick to Prince’s assless chapped Alphabet Street. It was my good friend, Cary Grant who once said that "making love was his favorite form of exercise"....I know that just the thought of this made me yell out "Judy, Judy, Judy" in the throes of passion more than one time...My other good friend, Alex Rodriguez once said he enjoyed making love, but "more when doing it with myself". I have first hand knowledge that his own line of sex toys, called the A-Prod will be debuting at Kabala Centers very soon -- and potentially in the "Spring Training Package" from Intimate Surprises.

Mika, you need to loosen up and get yourself a little better acquainted with your “lady business.” To start, I suggest you hand-pick a nickname. Just as Henry Kissinger once confided to me that he often referred to “little Henry” as “Shaft,” I have given my general vaginal area the nickname "Cha-Cha" or more formerly "Cha-Cha Wawa". Why "Cha-Cha" you might ask? I picked a moniker that would also provide a private homage to my favorite character from “Grease,” no not Kinicki, but Cha Cha DeGregoria, "the best dancer at St. Bernadette’s with the worst reputation". And if you knew me during the 60's and 70's, you'd know that Cha-Cha Wawa got around!

If all of this dick talk is making you consider changing your prudish ways, I suggest that you start slow in the personal massage department. I strongly recommend starting with the Jackhammer Jesus and one dollop of “Slick-uid” -- any more and your chooch will resemble a Six Flags log flume. Trust me....I still walk funny since I got a little over zealous with myself in 1987 after a late night of partying with Gary Coleman in Malibu....

As my friend the Dalai Lama once whispered to me, "a good orgasm will make you see dead people, curl your toes with delight, and realize in one brief moment of clarity what the numbers on Lost really meant".

Warmest Regards,

Barbara and Cha-Cha Wawa

When Sex is Spelled C-A-T

A cautionary tale....
March always inspires me to do a bit of spring cleaning. So earlier today, I decided to tackle the basement playroom. Just as I was about to throw a number of scattered magnetic letters into the donation pile for my son’s pre-school, a Christmas flashback quickly made me think again…

Perhaps it was the yuletide spirit, or just the thrill of getting caught wrapping the kids’ gifts, but this past Christmas Eve, my husband and I got a little busy tying other things up in bows. It was just after midnight and I had been moving bags of toys from the attic to the basement to be sorted, tagged and wrapped. I admit, it’s not the most clever, streamlined or efficient of processes, but as many things in our household go, it was a last minute cluster fuck.

Usually, I am on my own, toiling away wrapping gifts and stocking stuffers for the three children, plus my husband...while he would fall asleep on the couch amid an “A Christmas Story” marathon. This year, however, it was different. Maybe he was procrastinating wrapping the one box he usually puts all of my gifts in, the ones that don’t get wrapped for free at the local bookstore, or perhaps something in him stirred watching Will Ferrell in tights in “Elf” for the umpteenth time…whatever it was, I wasn’t going to question it. He decided to join me and it was much needed help – light at the end of the tunnel and I thought I’d finally go to bed on Christmas Eve long before the kids got up.

He looked boyishly handsome as he waded into the piles of gifts, but his countenance quickly grew grim almost stern. I could tell he was trying to estimate the amount of damage done on the credit card. But I had a plan for times such as this. Oh yes, I knew what I was doing - a playful tousle of the hair, a shy smile and passing squeeze of the hand, a quick shoulder rub – I was activating launch codes. Alpha! Tango! Rudolph! Foxtrot! Tired as I was, I stealth-fully sent out the message, either get a little nookie now or kill the mood until Easter with an argument over spending.

Hugging went to kissing to let’s just say "gettin’ it on" on the coffee table, which just hours before the kids had been making cookies for Santa out of play-doh. “Who’s your Santa?”my husband devilishly whispered as pushed my right leg up higher. “Ouch,” I thought, but it was a moment and I figured I’d go with it even if it wasn’t feeling quite right. “Who’s your Santa?” he asked again, pushing my leg higher. “Aghh, ride me, ride me like a reindeer,” I cried as a piercing, sharp pain shot up through my lower back. (Admittedly, now I cringe at this lame attempt at seasonal dirty talk...in the moment or not, "ride me like a reindeer," what was I thinking??? And ok, it's not quite the same as screaming "Oh Richie, fuck me like a cop, not a lawyer," like the divorce attorney instructed Russell Crowe's character in "American Gangster," please note that at the time I wasn't trying for bonus style points...) In the end, our holiday hijinx had been fun and fulfilling, but I was really hurting.

Afterward, as we laid there amid the strewn wrapping and packages, my husband looked at me and asked “Are you okay?”

“Yes," I said, "but, I think both you and the table did a number on my back.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” he said then burst into hysterical laughter as I tried to get up. All he could do was point at my ass and giggle, “cat!”

"What the hell?" I thought as I stood up and twisted around to try to look at the right side of my ass….Then I saw the source of my pain. Three large magnetic letters were embedded in my backside, neatly spelling out “C-A-T.” (By the way, for those wondering, the letters are NOT included in the Intimate Surprises intro package at this time...) And when I gingerly picked them off, my husband howled again at the sight of what looked like a remedial tattoo and said, "At least the letters didn’t spell POOP!"

Moral of the story: Definitely think twice before getting busy in the playroom….and if you do, be careful not to donate anything that may or may not have been stuck to your ass …ho.ho.ho.

Sexless Marriage: Silly Marketing Ploy or Ultimate Economic Stimulus?

Aside from the state of the economy, Obamania, Snuggies, and Jessica Simpson’s weight, it seems that the nation is also captivated with the concept of the “sexless marriage.” The topic seems be discussed everywhere, from Good Morning America, CBS News and USA Today to The Village Voice. Hell, even Oprah has been devoting time and space to the topic!

I decided to do my own "deep dive" if you will, because I just couldn't accept that sex was going the way of the subprime loan.  However, a Google search for “sexless marriage” yielded almost 300,000 results (in .17 seconds I might add...).  Hmmm.... I continued to be skeptical until I happened to stumble upon an extremely morose blog titled, “The Neglected Husband.”   After reading it the third time, I was able to convince myself that my husband wasn't that good a writer.....

AskMen.com claims that approximately 40 million Americans live in a “sexless marriage,” which means that the average couple has sex less than 10 times a year. That statistic is astounding. How does that jibe with recent reports that condom sales are up and newly launched "relationship enhancing" services, like Intimate Surprises, are thriving?

Isn’t this a rather glass half empty way of thinking? Perhaps this whole concept was drummed up on a cocktail napkin by some hot-shot, over-sexed adman to use reverse psychology to sell Viagra. It’s as if the marketing powers that be put their heads together and whipped up another annoying social disease, putting “sexless marriage” right up there with Intimacy Deficit Disorder, Erectile Dysfunction, germ phobia and the fear of clowns.

Let’s think about all who profit from this sexless frenzy: therapists hawking books, seminars, services; drug companies peddling a panacea; pharmacies filling prescriptions; bookstores selling books; condom companies; adult entertainment companies; bars; magazines; news programs; people doing PR for companies serving this market…wait, maybe there is hope! Perhaps the sexless marriage phenomenon will be our ultimate economic stimulus...Scare the crap out of men by repetitively telling them that they will NEVER have sex again and it will touch off a national spending bender like we have never seen.

Other than Madonna (who apparently is the poster child for "sexless marriage" according to Google Image search) and the Clintons, celebrities seem to be immune to “sexless” press. I’ve often wondered if Katie Holmes lives in a sexless marriage, but when I read a headline yesterday that she was “only pregnant with possibilities,” and I nearly threw up in my mouth....but that is a whole other post....

For me, it’s like the Almond Joy tag line, sometimes you feel like sex, sometimes you don’t. I certainly don’t log my bedroom exploits on MapMyFitness.com or plot it out on the calendar as if I was tracking a full moon. Though, I know my husband has been secretly trying to create some sort of sex algorithm that would tell him key times to pounce. In our house, the concept is pretty simple: when I’m pissed at you, we’re in a pretty damn sexless marriage. Got that Romeo?

I Counted the Days Until He Returned!

My husband was away on a West Coast business trip for most of this past week. OMG, I have to admit I was a complete mess until he returned.

You know, it wasn’t THAT bad just being me and the three kids this week. I am used to dealing with the homework, the periodic fights over the remote, the skid marks in the 5 year old’s underwear, and the daily complaints from my 9 year old daughter that the school clothes I pick out for her purposefully make her look like a freak. No, I’m actually cool with all of that. It was the longing for his companionship and his touch that really made this week unbearable.

Since the stay at the Holiday Inn Express came so close to his trip, I’ve really felt the void. All week I really had to try hard to hide this extreme feeling of guilt that I didn’t rise to the occasion and give him the pre-business trip sex that I know he enjoys and so greatly deserved. I know it would have meant a lot to him, and could have been such a special send off for the guy I deeply love and appreciate. He works so hard to “bring home the bacon”, the least I could have done was Crisco his pan if you catch my drift…..

I can’t tell you how much I missed making his favorite dinner, Fiesta Meatloaf, this week (and the good natured comparison to his Mom’s recipe that always accompanies it). I missed the cute way he leaves the empty toilet paper roll for me on the floor in the bathroom. And in a funny way, I actually missed having him remind me to get his dry cleaning – once by email and once by voice mail – like he does every Tuesday. I know he does all of this because he loves me, and it is his way of letting me know how special I am to him.

So when he reminded me on his way out the door that he was extending the trip until Sunday so he could visit “his grandparents in Scottsdale”, I was all for it. It is a true testament to the kind of person my husband is that he would sacrifice a weekend of togetherness with us to be with his 90 year old grandparents during the 2 hours of awake time they have a day. I feel horrible that I didn’t remember to put his golf clubs in his car before he left, because I understand they live on one of the nicest public courses down there. Too bad he probably didn’t get in a couple of rounds, because that guy definitely deserves a break from everything!

But now, he is home…..and I am complete again. I worked extra hard to get the laundry folded and put away, the kids to clean their rooms, and yes, I made him his Fiesta Meatloaf. We’ll have a nice family dinner, and I’ll clean the kitchen and quickly put the kids to bed early tonight so I can give him the “proper” welcome home. Maybe I’ll actually follow through this time and “go for round two” instead of just saying it in the heat of passion – god knows my man deserves it! ;)

Editor’s note – In case you were wondering, I did not write this crap. Somehow my husband figured out my password and submitted this post behind my back. That well tanned, well rested bastard is smoking crack if he thinks he’s getting any nookie now…

No Sex In the Holiday Inn Express

While some blog about their children, music, beaches, puppies, rainbows and unicorns, I just can’t do it. Try as I might to come up with cute anecdotes about my children and family life, after a weekend skiing in VT with the family, I find myself today with something replaying in my head: “There is no sex in the Champagne Room.”

Chris Rock once sternly reminded everyone, “oh, there will be champagne in the Champagne Room, but absolutely no sex.” I have found that Mr. Rock’s altruism is really a metaphor for taking the whole family away on vacation and bunking in outrageously tight quarters. Because with 5 people, 1 room, 2 double beds and a cot…there will be absolutely no sex in the Holiday Inn Express.

The reality is that you can’t think of sex or ever remotely act on it when the kids are jumping on the next bed watching “High School Musical” for the 64th time. Such is life and you will take a quick hug and kiss on the cheek amid the whining, fighting and 2 out of 3 children randomly vomiting from either the excitement and fatigue of a long day skiing or the intense sugar rush from eating a 2 pound bag of m&ms. Despite the lame attempts at scheming by your husband, there are no chance trysts in the 5x5 bathroom, no under-the-covers "special" massages, only veiled and thinly veiled innuendo on the chairlift.

At last, you try to steal a few quiet moments together watching the Weather Channel on the lobby TV with warm coffee and stale bagels from the free breakfast buffet – the kids back in the room, 5 minutes into the 65th viewing of HSM.  You both sit back and begin to enjoy a conversation that does not include the mediation of an argument, reference to Spongebob, or negotiation of any sort. That is when the creepy trucker at the table across from you kills the mood by first trying to get your attention, then announcing to no one in particular, “Woo daddy! Hey there, hmm, looks like Ohio is going to really get hammered today with all that snow.” Good times…yeah…good times.

You Can Lead a Man to the Promised Land, But It Won't Guarantee He'll Give You an Orgasm!

Yesterday afternoon, the Huffington Post featured a blog post by author Ian Kerner, titled “Viva La Vulva.” The article was about the female orgasm and was written by a man. Most of the comments posted under his musings were by, you guessed it, men. I realize that Mr. Kerner has his books to sell and his status as a sexual health counselor to promote, but am I the only one who sees the irony in this?

Leave it to a man to get it all wrong about what turns a woman on. The main problem with the female orgasm is pretty basic: foreplay, or the lack thereof by the men in their love lives. This has nothing to do with, as Mr. Kerner describes, living in a post-SITC (Sex in the City) world, “orgasm regret” or the elusive hunt for the g-spot. To put it simply lads, you have to update your playbooks.

Many men, I will correctly assume, have no move to the hoop. It's a straight shot down the middle lane to the basket. Boob grab, crotch grab and zing, one single shot under the boards to the Promised Land. The vulva and all the wonderful tingly nerve endings that it hides are pushed aside in a horrendous technical foul. When are guys going to stop playing man-to-man and learn to settle down in the zone?

For that matter, women are not cars, guys. You can't stick your key in and expect the Hemi engine to roar. We're more like a vintage '67 Mustang, you have to let the engine warm-up and idle. You have to listen to what she tells you. You'll get her to purr, you just have to give it a bit of time.

The Obama Effect – Are They Bringing Sexy Back to the White House?

It seems a November article on the Huffington Post has touched off a flurry of internet speculation regarding President Obama and his Oval Office sex life. And everyone, I believe, wants to know if the Obamas will have sex in the White House? Has it happened already? Will it happen in just one room or say the Lincoln Bedroom, the rose garden, the oval office, the state ballroom? Will the Secret Service be listening in? Is it better when done on a rug with the Presidential Seal? Or will it be like sex in prison, as writer Amy Friedman described in this past Sunday’s NYT Modern Love column “Kept Together by the Bars Between Us” - “Yes, we did it, every three months in a trailer on the prison grounds, behind walls and gates and lock and key.” How badly do you have to screw up (no pun intended) as a Secret Service Agent to be on Presidential bedroom detail?

Like the world awaiting the election of a new Pope, watching for smoke to come from the Sistine Chapel, Americans are watching closely for an extra bounce in the President’s step as he enters the Oval Office, walks to a press conference or boards Air Force One. We all watch and wait, like Hitchcockian voyeurs, because the bottom line reality is that Republican politician sex is just not exciting. When was the last titillating Republican sex scandal, at least one that did not include tapping in a men’s room or confessions of erectile dysfunction. Historically, when Democrats (Howard Dean and his Vulcan mating ritual references excluded) get it on, it is one rollicking, hot, steamy, freaky, scandal-filled affair. The party can thank the Kennedy men (all of them), Bill Clinton and Thomas Jefferson for that reputation, I suppose...

But, what I love about Barack and Michelle Obama is that as a couple, they seem real. Whatever may go on behind closed doors, be damned. Because out in public, with the cameras on, they seem to be a caring, united front -genuinely affectionate, protective of each other and dare I say in love. In a time of national cynicism and divorce, when many people are staying in and “nesting” to weather the economic storm, isn’t it apropos that such a couple are in the White House. I hope their time in Washington brings them closer together and makes them stronger. I hope it brings us, as a nation, closer together and makes us stronger. So Mr. President, the gauntlet is laid down - bring sexy back and let love rule!

No Baby Mamas in this Bad Economy

While the economy sits on ice, apparently the bedroom is too darn hot! Charisse Jones of USA Today, reported on the recent rise in condom sales. This sentiment was echoed in a post on Slate.com, entitled "Sex is Cheap." Writer William Saletan argues to skip dinner in favor of a booty call claiming to "make love, not reservations."

There are two truths in a failing economy, both involve sex and alcohol. First, people will drink more. Second, when people drink more they get horny and when they get horny they have more sex. Furthermore, when you drink, get horny and have unprotected sex, chances are guys, in nine months you'll have your very own Baby Mama.

While representative for condom makers claim their products are recession resistant, they are not break resistant. So better double up boys and girls, or pretty soon one of you will be eating for two!

A Seussical Refusical

Not in a car. Not in a boat. Not on a train. Not in the rain.
Not in a house. Not with a mouse. Not in a tree. It will not happen tonight you see.
There will not be any sex between you and me.

I am tired. Yes, I am. So turn off the light, roll over and pull the covers way up tight.
You can not induce me to want to take my jammies off. At your advances I must scoff.
Too much has gone on today, that has gotten me mad and made me act this way.

You did not help put the kids to bed, fold the laundry or rub my head.
You did not help with the dishes, too. You know the ones... they are orange, yellow, green and blue.

So why must I submit to what you want – high on top or backing it up.
This is not the game I want to play, the rules you use are stacked up against me anyway.
So I must say again to you. It will not happened tonight you see.
Not in a car. Not in a tree.
Not tonight, no way, tee-hee, there will be no sex between you and me.

Sinatra & Seduction

Perhaps it is the'60's era swagger or the allure of the Rat Pack, but hands down Frank Sinatra could deliver a song so full of emotion and bravado that would have the lady swooning in the arms of the cad that wanted only one thing. It was no surpise, then, that "Seduction: Sinatra Sings Songs of Love," www.sinatra.com, was released just in time for Valentine's Day. Songs like "All the Way," "Witchcraft," "More," and "I've Got You Under My Skin" should be on everyone's infinite Valentine's/Date Night playlist. Are they on yours?

We ALL do it!

As the song goes, "Bears do it. Bees do it. Even educated fleas do it." We all do it. Yet, how come we can't talk about it! What is it about three letters, S-E-X, that mystify, tongue-tie and more or less mute the masses? It is such a polarizing topic that I have found there is really not much of a grey area. People are either intrigued with eyebrows raised or shy away with wide eyes and crossed arms.

In a recent article posted on http://www.salon.com/, journalist Rebecca Traister briefly skirts this issue in a article titled, "The Great Girl Gross-Out." In the article, Ms. Traister talks about a recent trend with female writers, in which no detail of bodily function or female reality is left undescribed to an almost glaring, graphic fault. While the article was not about sex, I was left to wonder why women can talk and describe at such length menstral flow, cramping, c-sections, discharge, birth control, etc., yet sex as a subject is still a bit unsettling and a bit taboo?