In The Same Sex Marriage Debate, Why Can't Love Conquer All?

Love. Everyone wants to be in love, to have someone to love, to tell you something about love.

Yet, William Shakespeare has truthfully said, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” And Dorothy Parker, in wittier fashion, has said, “Love is for unlucky folk. Love is but a curse.” In short, to love is to take the good with the bad; to take the good with the bad, in a sense, is the essence of marriage.

When I got married, like every other bride and groom, thought we were exceedingly original when we selected as our second reading the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians, “Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not jealous, it does not put on airs….There is no limit to love’s forbearance, to its trust, its hope, its power to endure. Love never fails.” If all of this love is so powerful, so wonderful and so blind, then what does it matter if it is “same sex” love and marriage or, to quote Miss California, “opposite sex” love and marriage.

I don’t mean to trivialize the issue, but I don’t understand what the big deal is. What do heterosexuals think will happen if gay people can get married? Lightning bolts will not thunder down from the sky, zombies will not crawl out of the subway, locusts will not swarm Topeka, Kansas, A-Rod will not switch hit for the other team….well, I can’t vouch for A-Rod, but life will more or less remain status quo.

The New York State Legislature has until June 20th to enact legislation to legalize same sex unions. Perhaps it is too naïve of me to hope that at the end of the day love will conquer all. Why is it that only heterosexual couples get the right to voluntarily enter into the last legal form of indentured servitude? Marriage should just be what it is – part cultural institution, part formality, part circus – and not the epicenter of a political, social or religious agenda. In a Utopian world, wouldn’t marriage be genderless and universal? Doesn’t it mean something, doesn’t it count, if two people, gay or straight, commit themselves to each other before their god, government, family, and the world in a marriage and say, “I want to be with you, I want to grow old with you, I want to care for you and have a family?” We aren’t talking about water boarding or snuggies or the Taliban or the economy, it is love, and according to the Beatles, it is “all we need!”

Looking back on my wedding album, I can’t help but think how young and foolish we were. I was 24 years old; my husband was a “more mature” age of 25. We were head-over-heels happy, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat. However, I am ashamed to admit that over the last decade, there have been far too many times were I have taken my marriage for granted. My husband and my marriage have weathered the rocky times, the selfish times, the good times and all the in between times. Never once, until now, did I stop to think how about how my life would have been if I couldn’t have gotten married to the one person I love.

If all heterosexual couples could have an “It’s a Wonderful Marriage” moment with an angel named Clarence (or maybe just Nathan Lane) who could magically show us how things could have been if wedded bliss was not a legal option, I feel pretty confident to say that more people would approach the same sex marriage debate with a much more open mind and compassionate heart.

In the end, I think those opposed to gay marriages are just scared. Scared that homosexuals will take the hallowed hetero institution of marriage and finally get it right. Like the areas of art, fashion, literature, music, design, grooming, entertainment and celebrity gossip where gay people have surpassed their hetero brethren to achieve an awesome and glittering level of excellence. A success that is bigger, broader, bawdier and bolder, like Hugh Jackman’s “I Go To Rio” finale from “The Boy from Oz,” in a way no straight person could ever dream of; Only a level of excellence that could be achieved by a boyhood spent clandestinely dancing to Bette Midler in ladies lingerie and gold Gucci heels, could passionately wish, dream and make it happen.

Doesn’t a loving male couple with matching cardigan sweaters, to-die-for rose bushes and crisp Italian linen drapes deserve the same marital rights as knocked up 17 year olds from Alaska or Louisiana? Or can’t we a least hook them up with a commitment ceremony that is not half as cheesy as the whole Spencer/Heidi “Prontag” debacle! Who gets to say what is and is not convention? Is there some imaginary book out there, like Santa’s “Naughty and Nice” list which definitively states what can and can not be?

Now Miss California, Carrie Prejean, will tell you that great book of conventional wisdom is the Bible. Scientologists will say it’s a large egg-like spaceship from the planet Ork. Catholics will say it’s the Pope. The Prontag’s will say they are just so blessed to be famous and Donald Trump will say whatever will get him laid…with Melania, Miss California, Joan Rivers, the Pope, Rosie O'Donnell, or anyone else he needs to get into bed with to do a deal. Gay, lesbian and transgender people have enough to endure in life without having to worry about what the states, courts and cosmetically enhanced beauty queens have to say about their personal love lives.

This past Sunday marked the 5th anniversary of the first same sex marriage license recorded in the state of Massachusetts. According to the Boston Globe, since 2004 there have been 12,000 legally recognized same sex unions, which in turn have pumped close to $111 million into the state’s economy. Trite jokes about Provincetown, 24 karat gold penis commitment jewelry and his-his / hers-hers towels at the Berkshire cottage aside, you can not deny the coincidence that 2004 was a big year in Bay State history – same sex marriages were legalized and the Red Sox FINALLY reversed the curse and won the world series.

New York sports fans are you really willing to chance it? Take a tip from Red Sox Nation, embrace your inner Mike Piazza, call your state senator and support same sex unions - a May win at the statehouse just might translate to an October win on a hometown ball field!

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)

Don't Pitch The Bitch!

Associated Press reports that $5.5 billion more in government bailout funds will be floated to GM and Chrysler. Apparently, the Obama administration has taken the “Don’t Pitch the Bitch” sales mantra to heart - there is not a single woman on the government’s Auto Industry Task Force. For those of you not familiar with “DPTB,” it is a line from the movie Boiler Room. In the movie, a slick senior broker obnoxiously hangs the phone up on a green newbie because he spends too much time pitching woman when cold calling. Not exactly the I Ching, but, as most of you ladies know first hand, it is still an unstated code for stock brokers, car salesmen and most blue collar tradesman.

Just like “coffee is for closers” and “greed is good,” “DPTB” is one of those stupid Hollywood-driven, testosterone infused euphemisms that makes me want to scream! It’s 2009 for fuck’s sake! So why do I constantly feel that I have to arm my vagina for battle a la Braveheart and prepare for the worst every time I set foot on a car lot or field estimates for work done on the house? Let’s face it, it’s the penis factor. Be it big, small or plastic, a woman can’t get a deal on a car without one.

Guys, let's get all the Freud allusions out of the way, this rant isn’t fueled by “penis envy,” “arm-pit hair envy,” “back hair envy” or any other sweaty, smelly “male-made” explanations for smart, savvy females.

The problem is that no matter how hard we try, ladies, the vagina always gets in the way. It would be so much more convenient if we could take it off at times, fold it neatly into a square and stick it into your purse when looking for a new car. Or for that matter, when you’re not in the mood, dress it up in a little Prada, smack lipstick on it and have the husband take it out on the town or on a business trip. Obviously, there would have to be rules of conduct, as the hubby can’t be "passing the pussy" around like cranberries on Thanksgiving….but that’s a different post entirely….

But I digress.... all of this just reminds me of the long and protracted car buying process that we went through at this time last year. My husband - who believes that I should learn to do things like this without his help, like negotiate a car deal, jump start a battery, pee standing up, etc. because the sheer stress of living with me is taking years off his life or so he claims - armed me with stats and web site comps and wanted me to check out a pre-owned vehicle with very low mileage.

There I was, 20 miles from home with 3 children in tow, an oddity at the dealership. I don’t know what they thought, but after 15 minutes of loudly telling the kids “Yes, we’re here to buy a car,” I had to go over one of the salesmen to get his attention. He was an older gentleman and looked very perplexed. You know he was wondering what the deal was. Where is the husband? Is she divorced? Or is she the "guy" in the all-female relationship? Bottom line, they were all wondering, where is the penis?

And when you don’t have the penis, you are expected to sit there and smile and be nice. Feign interest in the man’s diatribes on the heated seats and make-up mirror, as you glean info on the vehicle’s service history and list of prior owners. Nod when he shows you how to set the child locks, open up the back hatch and change the position of the driver’s seat.

Maybe he was confused, when I started to talk in big words about the drive-train, anti-lock brakes, warranties and gas mileage. But he should have known better than to try to pull a fast one on the woman in naughty librarian glasses with her head on a swivel shooting dirty looks at her three children while simultaneously asking very specific questions. And he really didn’t have much of an explanation when I caught him putting the wrong make, model and year of my trade-in on the Kelly’s Blue Book website.

I couldn’t even get past my first objective, to negotiate the sticker price. The sales manager came over angrily to discuss the discrepancies with their price and my offer. “Isn’t this a negotiation? Isn’t this just a jumping off point to meet in the middle?” I had said. Apparently not, because after 2 hours of mind numbing small talk, I walked. Frustrated, I drove home and called my husband to recap the entire episode. “Sorry, looks like you learned a tough lesson: they don’t pitch the bitch,” he said. Then it hit me like a freight train, the bastard knew the deal was not going to happen. No penis, no deal. He had sent me ahead to do all of the leg work, to get all the right info, so that he could take it and his penis to another dealership and get the car. What a dick!

Truth be told, everything turned out okay in the end: my husband made the deal he wanted to make and I got the car. As a way to celebrate, I told him I had a "special thank you" planned for him the night he brought the car home. He carefully pulled our new vehicle into the garage and sauntered into the house like the returning conquerer, twirling the keys happily. The look on his face was priceless when I snatched the keys from him, gave him a peck on the cheek and told him I was letting him put the 3 kids to bed that night so I could go out with my girlfriends in the new car. Payback is definitely a bitch!

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....

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?

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!

Unsold Valentine's Day Cards

The inside read: "I love you just the way you are. Happy Valentine's Day!"

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.

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?