One week ago, Dave and I spent 23.5 hours without our children at our favorite resort so we could celebrate our anniversary like sinners, gambling and having wild sex.

I found a purse I completely fell in love with during our getaway. It must have been all the sex. Or the money I won. We were supposed to be shopping for souvenirs for the girls and my parents, but I couldn’t help but notice it and want it for myself. After the fourth or fifth time I danced past and fondled it, Dave asked, “Why don’t you just buy it?’

“Oh, I don’t need it,” I said softly, turning back to reach out and run my fingers over the embroidered letters.

“But you want it?”

I gave him a coy look out of the corner of my eye, then turned away from it and headed toward the front of the gift shop.

He grabbed the purse of followed behind me.

“Buy it,” he said, handing it to me.



“Are you sure?”


“I don’t know…”

“Leslie. BUY IT.”


“And LET’S GO.”

I cradled it in my arms and examined it while waiting our turn to check out. When we were up next, I started to have second thoughts. “Dave, are you sure? Isn’t it a little cheesy?” I asked, holding it up next to my face.

“Cheesy is kind of your bag, honey.”

Literally, now it is.

The purse

Don’t worry. I’m not going to start shopping at Bonworth. I was on vacation. Remember that little exchange in You’ve Got Mail?

“People do really stupid things in foreign countries.”

“Absolutely. They buy leather jackets for much more than they’re worth.”

Of course, I wasn’t in a foreign country, just a different state.

And secretly, I still really, really love it.

I’m almost afraid
to say we’re going away
something might stop it

Last night, Dave and I crawled into bed and lay face to face for our daily status report.

“If you get up with Julia tomorrow, do not put any Fun Dips in her lunch. She’ll ask you to, but I already told her it’s not appropriate for school.”

“Alright. Are my good jeans washed?”

“I think so. Did you switch the car seats?”

“Uh huh. Oh, Picasso is out of food. Don’t forget to pick some up.”

“Okay. I rescheduled the dentist appointments.”


“Earlier in the day.”


The room fell silent.

“So,” I chimed, then cleared my throat.


I cleared my throat AGAIN. “So!”


Once again, “So,” and a very deliberate clearing of the throat.

Then Dave farted.

“Well, there goes that!” I huffed and rolled over.


“I’m not putting my nose anywhere near your butt stink. Looks like we’re not doing it tonight!”

“You wanted to do it?!?!?”


“What do you mean ‘duh?'”

“I said ‘So!’ and I CLEARED MY THROAT. Like you don’t know what that means!!!”

“I don’t know what that means!!!!”

“I know your signals.”

“And they are?”

“Conscious means you probably want to do it. Snoring means probably not.”


“You weren’t snoring!”

“The last time you said, ‘Alright then,’ and I tried to touch your boob and you yelled and cried because they were sore.”

“Yeah, that was ‘Alright then.” This was “So!” and I CLEARED MY THROAT.”

“So clearing your throat means you want to have sex.”



“Unless I’m sick.”

“Oh for goodness sake, I’ll never understand you!”

Silence again. A soft Lucy snarfle burped from the baby monitor. Picasso started to purr softly at the foot of the bed.



“So!” he said again. Then he cleared his throat.



“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

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