For the Record

Wouldn’t it be funny if my husband and I got into a blog war, where I said on my blog that I wasn’t in the mood for sex, and he said on his blog that sex with me was a giant chore, too?

And then I could come back with, “Oh yeah, well you leave the cupboard doors open all the time.”

And he could say, “You leave stuff on the stairs where people could trip!”

“But you never do!”

“I did. Once.”

“Why were you walking on the outer-most corner of the stairs anyhow? If you’re so coordinated, you shouldn’t be tripping. And by the way, why do you think I’m melodramatic? That’s the single most hurtful thing you could ever say to me. Just because I’m emotional doesn’t mean I’m not genuine. I’m a writer—if I don’t have that, I have nothing. And I did not leave that sock on the stairs. Ian did.”

And so on. It would really clear the air, so instead of spending three days not talking to each other, we could spend the same three days insulting each other over the Internet! My trigger finger is itching already.

But, the truth is that having sex with my husband is really super-fun, as is having sex with me. In fact—and this is just a self-serving aside—I’m the best kisser in the world. It’s true. Somebody has to be, and it’s me. You might think it’s a shame that it’s not Jessica Alba or Justin Timberlake or somebody hot, but why should they get all the luck? I’ve tested my hypothesis, and everybody I’ve kissed always agrees. I’ll kiss you if you want, to prove it. As long as you have fresh breath and all of your own teeth.