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.

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!

The Assman Cometh

If you asked my 74 year-old father what the funniest show on television is, he’ll tell you, without hesitation and with much gusto - “SEINFELD! I love that Jerry Seinfeld and Kramer and George and the parents, they’re all just nuts…just nuts.”

Now, this gushing review isn’t because he’s nostalgically reliving the series in reruns, it’s because he’s watching it all for the first time.

Each night, regardless of the day of the week, he watches the 10 p.m. news on the local FOX affiliate so that he catch two back-to-back episodes at 10:30 p.m. and 11:00 p.m. I never would have caught on, had I not visited over the tail end of April break. Usually, when we’d talk on the phone and he’d tell much how much he liked the show and how funny it was, I always thought it was small talk, like talk of the weather or his beloved Philadelphia sports teams or the number of weddings or funerals he went to that week. It was all just part of the background, things he did and talked about now that both he and my mother are retired.

For those of you who don’t know my dad, he is a serial funeral-goer. He trolls the obits of 3 different local papers looking for friends or relatives of friends, or friends of friends or relatives of friends of friends, that have passed on…then he cuts out the article, attends the service and then like baseball cards keeps them in a neat pile by the computer in his office. It’s a bit macabre I suppose, while some people save old lottery tickets or used movie stubs, he saves old friends. 

So the question is -- where was he at 9:00 p.m. on Thursday nights from 1989 to 1998?  I mean, he knows a lot of people, but there is no way he was booked with viewings, wakes or sitting shiva the whole time....

I’m not sure, but I’d bet money that at that time, his “Must See TV” was probably UHF reruns of “Sanford & Son” or “Chico & The Man." Now that Seinfeld is on his radar, I don’t think he realizes that his watercolor recaps are coming over 10 years too late. For example, we happened to catch one of my all time favorite Seinfeld shows “Fusilli Jerry.” Before Kramer could make his first entrance, I enthusiastically stated, “Oh it’s the Assman episode!”

“What?” my father said, clearly not listening, already pondering the crazy predicaments the Seinfeld gang was going to find themselves in this time.

“It’s the Assman one.” I repeated.

“What?” my dad said.

“Assman,” I said louder and just as the funky transition music faded and the commercial came on I screamed “ASSMAN!” My father whipped his head around, clearly hearing me this time. From his countenance, I could tell he was assuming that I was screaming some new-fangled obscenity at him.

“Dad, calm down, it’s the Assman episode, you know, the guy with the license plate is a proctologist….” My voice trailed off and my father had a forlorn look, like I had just read him the last pages of a novel he was trying desperately to finish. I suddenly realized that he had not seen the Assman coming.

I sat quietly for the remainder of the show and when Kramer delivered the final payoff punch line just as George impales his backside on fusilli Jerry, he looked over at me incredulously….as if I had gazed into a crystal ball to foresee the ending, instead of simply owning the complete series box set.

I slinked out of the room to find my brother to compare “weird dad” notes and leave the man to watch the 11:00 p.m. episode wondering what could possibly top the wackiness we just observed. While his behavior was a bit odd, it was no where near the experiences I have had watching television with my husband’s octogenarian grandparents (the same ones he recently visited in Scottsdale) who frequently mute commercials, switch between watching "Rumpole of the Bailey" on PBS and "Radio Days" marathons on VHS, and often watch the reflection of the television in a large mirror on the opposite side of the room, because they refuse to move their seat to a more conventional place.

I was soon drawn back to the room by my father’s infectious laughter. The Assman had come and gone and now “Malcolm In the Middle” was on. I sat down next to him on the sofa with a smile. I had never seen any episode of "Malcolm" and relished that we had finally reached father-daughter rerun bonding nirvana….

Slacker Mom? Bitch, Pleeze!

My 36th birthday was Saturday.  Now that I’m one year older and that much closer to the wrong side of 40, I’m finding that when it comes to some of life's little nuances, like political correctness, I just don’t care. For example, I'm finding that my ability to self-edit before blurting out exactly what is on my mind is slipping.  You all know what I'm talking about...it's those times when you think “WTF Retard!” when the well intentioned mentally challenged grocery bagger stuffs your loaf of organic whole grain bread in between multiple juice box cartons, a large bottle of diet iced tea and a jar of black bean salsa to create one large, flat, oblong tortilla.  The vast majority of you would politely push your cart away while silently cussing a blue streak in your head.  But yesterday was one of those days, and in the 12 item or less line, I think I might have said it out loud.

As I stood there wondering, "Oops, did I just say that?"  I kept thinking of a Saturday Night Live skit that I watched over the weekend and have not gotten Angie Tempura, the “Bitch Pleeze Blogger”, out of my head.  I laugh every time I watch it and the response has become my unofficial slacker mom battle cry! 

Why? Bitch, pleeze!  It is an apt response for almost every friend, co-worker, family member and occasion.  One perfect, snarky little Hallmark-ism that just says, “Shut the fuck up,” but in a much nicer way.  And, it is VERY cathartic.  Just as the lector reads the petitions/intentions at church and the congregation responds with “amen” or “Lord, hear our prayer.”  So too should moms everywhere state “Bitch, pleeze!” in response to whining, nagging, complaining and utter stupidity.

For use with the kids:

“Why do you have to make me do ALL of my homework!"

“Bitch, pleeze!”

"Mommy...even though I just had a Pop Tart, 3 juice boxes, a twinkie and 10 mini pancakes, I'm STILL hungry"

“Bitch, pleeze!”

"I don't want to play outside, it's boring.  I'd rather watch High School Musical again."
“Bitch, pleeze!”

“Everyone in the fourth grade has a Nintendo DS, IPod, AmEx Platinum Card, Smart Car, Pony, and Snuggie, but me!”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

“Mommy, I didn’t make it to the potty in time!”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

For use with teachers /administrators:

“While your son tries hard, he needs to focus more on his classroom work and less time on farting noises.”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

“This is the Vice Principal.  There was a little incident in the lunch line this afternoon.  Your daughter told a little boy that he was only going to get coal in his stocking this Christmas.”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

For use with your husband / spouse:

“I thought I was going to get a birthday blow job?"

“Bitch, pleeze!”

“Can you take the kids out for the afternoon, I really need to focus on the football game I’m watching on TV!”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

It also works, I have found, for any "high priority email" with return receipt request and ASAP in the subject line, non-profit organization communications, neighbors that park on my lawn, phone solicitors from India, the cranky, sexually ambiguous mail lady who reads my People magazine, and my mother-in-law.

Got any good ones of your own to add to the list? 

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…

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!"

The Stigma of the Valentine's Day "First Date"

Last night, over sangria, Cornona and marginally good Mexican food, I realized that my husband and I had spent the last17 Valentine's Days together. No matter how you look at it, it's a pretty staggering statistic....one that in dog years would make us each 119 years old.

The couple sharing the table with us, I surmised must have been on a first date. She was wearing a red sweater, and mostly likely her "good" jewelry. He was in his late forties and seemed neither attractive nor terribly interesting. They may or may not have been recently divorced or on a blind date, but one thing was certain....they both seemed lonely.

She talked at length, loudly over the noise of the cover band "The Ecclectic Groove" (couldn't have made that name up if I tried.) And, I overheard her speak of the travails of a work colleague, a cousin's cancer battle, and a laundry list of ancetodes starring various siblings, relatives and friends. He said little to nothing, sucking down his beer, barely listening and scanning the bar. He was just passing time, hoping tonight he'd get lucky.

She was just trying to fill the dead air space. Neither, I am sure, wanted to be home alone. "I think they are on a first date," I whispered to my husband as he handed me another Corona. He looked over at the couple and laughed at me, "You think everyone in here is on a first date." Well, maybe they all are, I thought.

"Okay, then what about those two," he said, pointing to a decidedly older couple that had swept in quickly, taking a large, round table all to themselves. They looked a bit out of place, as if they popped in on a lark, not wanting to end the evening yet. She wore an ankle length, white fur with an overly ornate gold necklace. With the looming pile of silver hair and bright rouge-y makeup, she was almost cartoonish.

"First date," I smirked and kissed his forehead. He immediately turned his attention back to the All-Star Slam Dunk contest on the TV and squeezed my hand. We, on the other hand were not on a first date. And never, for that matter, had the pressure of a Valentine's Day first date....because in my husband's infinite wisdom as a college junior, he declared there was too much "stigma" attached to a Valentine's first date, too much pressure, too much to live up to. So our first date, without much fanfare was 17 years ago at a T.G.I.Friday's on February 13th.

To this day, my flowers and cards from him, come on Feb. 13th. Each year it makes me smile, because I stop and think about "the stigma" of what could have been and the reality of what it all has become.

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?