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"I had a restless November. It was a like my soul turned permanently cranky and refused to budge. Like water in a kettle with no spout, it rattled around, threatening to burst, but felt trapped within the steel confines of its cage. When that happens, I look within. I pray. I walk. I chat with girlfriends. I thrift store shop. I drink a glass of wine. And when all else fails, I blame everything on my husband. Even though subconsciously I knew marriage wasn&amp;#039;t going to fix everything, in my heart, I was convinced I had found the solution to loneliness, frustration and anxiety in Rex. Handsome, reliable and sweet, by kissing him I could kiss my internal demons goodbye. But of course it doesn&amp;#039;t work that way. And I&amp;#039;m certainly not excusing Rex from doing his part to serve his fabulous wife! (LOL.) But I am saying that Rex was not born to simply take care of me. Why should his entire reserved personality bend to conform to my pandora&amp;#039;s box of emotion? And would I want it to? Isn&amp;#039;t the reason I fell for him in the first place is that his steady, predictable nature would keep my manic style swings at an even keel? The answer is yes. But the problem is that when the routine of life gets stale, Rex because my target. Instead of feeling even keeled I feel like I&amp;#039;m flat lining \u2013 and damnit, it&amp;#039;s all his fault! Where&amp;#039;s my surprise earrings? Where&amp;#039;s my flowers? Where&amp;#039;s my card telling me how fabulous I am? While the romantic still holds hopes that those things are in motion (any moment I expect the surprise mariachi band on my lawn) the pragmatist knows that between providing for our future, despite a crazy economy, Rex is kissing his boss&amp;#039;s ass, not mine. And really, on most days, that&amp;#039;s fine. But when I&amp;#039;m nuts, I need something else. And if it&amp;#039;s not Rex morphing into Hugh Jackman with passes to an all night ballroom dance club (wouldn&amp;#039;t that be divine?) it&amp;#039;s called A VACATION! Duh! Why haven&amp;#039;t I thought of that before? How many years has it been since I had a real vacation? Sadly, ten. TEN. Like the economy, spam and those L.A. moms who bend over in parks revealing thongs and smurf inked tattoos it&amp;#039;s WRONG. This blogger, also a fabulous new mom friend from kindergarten who not only doesn&amp;#039;t judge me for writing a sex column but I&amp;#039;m quite certain has a few tricks up her own sleeve, sets aside time every year to play with her husband. Great idea! Inspired by her, I won&amp;#039;t be writing for the next month as I&amp;#039;m taking three weeks in Paris. Except I need to pay for this excess. So fine, I&amp;#039;ll keep writing, but I&amp;#039;m taking two days at the Holiday Inn in Santa Barbara or so help me I&amp;#039;m stealing Hugh Jackman from his wife to take me to a samba lesson. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/relationships/a2839/men-so-fun-to-play-with/?src=shelter_footer>