If you don’t have kids, getting some action really only requires the presence of a willing partner. (Or maybe not, right?)
Even with one kiddo, it’s still possible to knock boots on a fairly frequent, spontaneous basis.
But throw another child into the mix – heck, here, two even – and the planets have to align perfectly for there to be any mattress dancing. Add to that a mother in law who stayed for a week, and you can understand why my husband began humping my leg anytime we brushed too close in the hallway.
So this week, we had to schedule sex for the first time ever.
Baby in bed at eight. Big kids passed out by 9:30. In the immortal words of Marvin Gaye, let’s Get. It. On.
Only, see, we’ve got to turn the baby monitor on since we’re shutting the door. We normally don’t do this, but there’s a sleepwalking ten year old and an eight year old with a mouse bladder staying here and it’s so not my job to explain the birds, the bees and the beast with two backs to these guys.
So yeah, door shut, monitor on.
And since my son has slept with music on since birth, the campy strains of the Glee soundtrack begin to waft through the air. There are many songs from this collection that would be appropriate for a situation like this. Some Color Me Badd, perhaps. Lionel Richie. Bell Biv DeVoe even.
But no. Do you know what starts playing?
Olivia Newton Freaking John. Physical.
And suddenly all I can think about is sweatbands and leotards and leg lifts, which are so not sexy, at least not to me.
Hubby doesn’t care, he’s like, I can tune it out (I WANNA GET PHYSICAL, PHYSICAL) and I’m like (LET’S GET PHYSICAL, PHYSICAL) what? I can’t hear you over the awfulness.
So we wait for the song to be over, which isn’t happening, because she’s only completed 492 of the 981 times she screeches PHYSICAL, PHYSICAL throughout this hot mess. Then we agree since we can’t turn off the monitor, and if we turn off the music Monkey will probably wake up and then we’re totally screwed( or not screwed, as it were) we’ll just turn on the tv and drown out the terribleness.
Oh and look what’s on! Jersey Shore.
Great, ’cause nothing is sexier than Dorito-tanned, fist-pumping STDs screaming “T-SHIRT TIME” at you.
And I’m sitting here in the middle of the worst mash-up ever to hit the airwaves (Physical! T-shirt time! Physical! Come at me bro!) thinking that I’ve just discovered a way to prevent teen pregnancy.