​​Because humor is funnier when you know it's true.

Want a sizzling hot marriage?


Romance is usually associated with chocolates, long stem roses, mushy cards, sexy lingerie, candle lit dinners; but not in my house. By the time I got to the box of chocolates, there are three left and the kids all had messy faces. Every time I lit a candle for a romantic dinner, the kids sang Happy Birthday and blew them all out. There was little alone time to even think about sexy lingerie.

In my younger years, I found a radio show that featured love advice. The woman touted herself as The Love Goddess. For thirty minutes every afternoon, she offered advice to keep marriages not just alive, but sizzling hot. I'd seen her photo and she was quite a sex kitten in her red silk jumpsuit and six-inch leopard heels. Her blonde hair was teased in a bouffant style that let a chunk of bangs fall slightly over her left eye. Her lipstick was ruby red, naturally. I was mesmerized by her photo. This woman was a kick ass sex kitten.

One of her suggestions was that women meet their husbands at the door, wrapped in plastic wrap. They obviously have never been to my house! Every time I need plastic wrap, there is exactly ten inches left on the roll. That would barely cover my magical, lady parts.

Normally when I run out of plastic wrap, I just use aluminum foil to wrap up the kid’s sandwiches for lunch. This did not sound like a sexy alternative. I sent the sex kitten an e-mail.

“Love Goddess, I am out of plastic wrap. Will foil be equally as exciting for my husband? Should the shiny side be inside or outside? Which one will make me look thin? I don’t want to look chubby.”

She responded, “What kind of wife doesn’t stock up on plastic wrap? Try the foil and get back to me on the results.” She didn’t even tell me which side to use. Her tone was so demeaning. I’ll tell you who forgets plastic wrap! A woman with five kids, a huge dog who slobbers, a male cat who had four kittens, and a perfect mother-in-law. That’s who!

Fortunately, it was grilling season and I had a roll of five hundred feet of non-stick, heavy duty, aluminum foil. It was the bonus size box for my bonus size body. Let me just tell you that you can get foil cuts, just like paper cuts, in places you’ve never seen. This was a bad idea.

I had four Strawberry Shortcake band-aids taped on my nether region. Luckily, the foil reflection hid them. My husband was due home at six-thirty. The kids were at their friend’s houses, I was wrapped, and ready for action. I made a small mistake and wrapped my legs a bit tight. I walked like a mermaid to greet him at the door.

“Welcome home,” I said in my best sultry voice. I raised my eye brows and blew him a kiss. I waited for him to totally take in my sexiness. His eyes were bigger than usual. He must have been stunned by my beauty.

“What are you wearing? Is that my heavy duty, non-stick, expensive foil? I need that for steaks on the grill!”

“Well when we have no plastic wrap; I improvised because I am spontaneous.” I told him smiling. I wiggled my eyebrows to entice him.

“You were going to wear plastic wrap?” he gasped.

“Of course, because I love you so much,” I responded, batting my big, blue, eyes at him.

“You’d have heat stroke!” He rubbed his head nervously.

I yanked him in the door and kissed him. He was still getting his balance when my rear bottom foil broke loose. “Wait, I need a minute to compose myself,” I told him in the sweetest voice I could muster.

“You can take that off, Anne. You look like I should pop you in the oven.”

That was the wrong thing to say. It had taken me close to an hour to line up the eight-foot foil strip before I rolled myself in it. No more kisses!

“I just wanted to be sexy!” I barked at him as I waddled off to remove the foil.

I was determined to have a great marriage. After all, I couldn’t possibly survive with all those kids on my own. I could barely do bath time for all of them without gulping a quart size glass of wine.

A week later I threw on an old, blue, Villanova University T-shirt and put my hair in a pony tail. I schlepped around the house like a vagabond, brain storming ideas to keep my marriage exciting. I blared the music and sang along.

My husband came home for lunch that day. He found me dancing with the vacuum cleaner, and singing along with Elvis, I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You. He took me in his arms.