Sex and the Working Spouse

A couple of readers recently asked why I don't blog more about two things: sex and My Love. Oddly, these were posed as separate topics -- i.e., "Why don't you post more about sex?" and "Why don't you write more often about My Love?" -- as opposed to the compound subject, "Why don't you blog more about sex with My Love?"

As if the twain has never met, people. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My Love has been home a lot of late, with "home" loosely defined as somewhere in a 20-mile radius of the place the rest of our family sleeps. Yes, she's still an international executive goddess, but her AAirpass has been revoked temporarily to help save her company some scratch. So instead of jetting off to some fascinating Marriott in a foreign land, most mornings she's been up and out by 4 a.m. to the 1960-ish beige reinforced concrete decor of corporate headquarters and then back home by 10 at night.

Still, some of you might expect there'd be an increase in quality time with the Mrs. based sheerly on physical proximity. Instead, you get scenarios like this one: The Things and I sit down to dinner, hear the garage door open below us and her car pull in. My Love comes bounding up the stairs to join us … two hours later.

"I was on an overseas conference call with our office in Phuntsholing and I didn't want to lose the signal," she said.

"Did you say, 'fun to schlong'?"

"Phuntsholing," she said with more clarity. "It's the New York City of Bhutan."

"I couldn't agree more if I actually knew where the hell you were talking about," I said. "Did you say, 'butt on'?"

The mounting piles of paperwork have even led My Love to try to escape "meeting hell" by invading my territory a few times by working from home. It's an art she's yet to fully perfect, in my opinion, at least in terms of multi-tasking. Like last week, she sat on a stool at the kitchen island, working on the computer with her Blackberry earbud welded in place for 20 straight hours. Good start, but she still shrugged off dozens of my best requests, suggestions and double-entendres to "have a snack," "get in some stretching" and "address those stubborn Tupperware stains."

Pretty much reminded me of our first trip to Las Vegas.

"I'm busted. Let's go get some dinner. The food trough is ready and waiting. I smell 10-cent shrimp cocktails!" I said, pushing away from the blackjack table.

"In a few minutes. Just one more shoe after this one."

"You said that five hours ago when I wanted to go for lunch. And three hours before that when we were supposed to meet your dad for breakfast."

"I can't break up the table. We're on a streak. You -- at third base! Split 'em and hit 'em. Now."

"Very well," I said. "I'm going out to the corner to find drug-addled call girls willing to use your toothbrush to pumice their bunions. Good by you?"

"OK. Just one more shoe after this one."

I admire her focus and dedication. In return, you'd think she'd admire mine, as best displayed in this clip from one of my favorite TV shows, "Ed" (uh, this is a name, not ED -- the abbreviation for erectile dysfunction, smartass):



How will My Love react to my blogging about this most intimate of subjects? Probably not well.

But this being a Tuesday during Thanksgiving week, not much of a loss.

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