The hubs and I are having a disagreement. It’s an argument as old as time itself. For the duration of our marriage we have been having this same argument. (Sad, really, you’d think we would have either resolved it or moved on. Nope, not us. We are nothing if not tenacious.)

So I am asking all four of my regular readers, and all you invisible folks to delurk and weigh in. So that after 13 damn years I can put this miserable argument to rest once and for all.

Is it possible for a man and a woman to have a close friendship and not be or become sexually interested in one another. Or is it more of a When Harry Met Sally type of thing? Is it inappropriate for a married person to have a friendship with an unmarried member of the opposite sex?

What do you think? Enlighten us rednecks. Bring peace to my home.

If nothing else, lie for me. Give me what I need to do my happy Boo-Yah! dance for my hubs. Strike that. Tell me what you really think, even if it means him gloating and acting like the ass he can be, loudly proclaiming victory.

But for the love of all married folk, help us.

Because if I have to have this argument for another 13 years, I might just have to stick a fork in my eye.

I don’t often post about my brother. Mostly, because he’s almost 6 foot 5, has a goatee measuring more than a foot long, and biceps as big as my head. He takes turds that are bigger than me. Pissing him off would be very unhealthy. For me, that is. He had 18 years practicing folding me into a pretzel, and he’s fairly smart. I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten the trick.

I learned a few tricks too, growing up with a smarter, bigger brother, who was only a year older than me. One, I can run faster scared than he can run mad, and two, if I can get him to laugh so hard he can’t breathe, I can take him.

Hence, I spent a lot of time growing up developing a sense of humor and looking for a good joke. Call it self preservation. I did have a big mouth, after all. And he tended to have a short fuse.

But now that there is 80 odd kilometers (50 miles for you Yanks) separating the two of us, I’m feeling brave once more. Even those freakishly long arms of his can’t reach that far to throttle my lily white neck.

So allow me to introduce you to my brother, dear internet. Whom I shall refer to as Stretch, because I know how much that will annoy him. (Visualizing the eye-rolling, now.)

Stretch is attached to Stump. Stump is a charmingly little woman who stands at just barely 5 feet tall, which leads to many a family discussion about the difference in their heights. Stump is a brilliant special needs teacher, who has forever won a place in my heart with her kind ways to my children. Plus, she can crack the whip like no other. How she manages to control the beast that is my brother is truly a miracle. Stretch and Stump make a lovely couple.

Stretch is in a band. A lovely little death metal band. And if I had decided to out myself, I would link to it. But I am still sitting on that particular fence, vacillating like the indecisive blogger I am.

In a moment of brotherly support, I once attended a gig of his. Where scary women wearing dog collars and chains gyrated in a indecent manner, oblivious to the dudes wearing animal blood and tee shirts with anarchist slogans moshing around them.

In an effort not to appear so, well, normal, I punked up my hair, piled on the makeup and borrowed a tee shirt from my sister, who often attends such events. (That would be were I made my big mistake.)

Never trust your sister, and her Cheshire kitty grin.

I couldn’t figure out why I was the life of this particular gig. After all, I was so whitebread in comparison to the other er, ladies, in attendance.

Finally, when my darling brother Stretch had enough giggles at my expense, he pulled me aside and asked how I was enjoying myself.

I gushed on and on about his band, the music and how proud I was of him.

And then I confessed I felt a little square in the wild crowd.

Nothing like leading a laughing man to a good joke.

He asked how I liked my shirt, and if I got any feedback on it.

I told him the shirt was fine, but now I was wary about his inquiry. After all, in all my years of being shoved into his smelly armpits or being held down while he farted in my face, he had never once bothered commenting on my appearance. Not even on my wedding day.

It was in this moment that every strange thing that had happened to me that evening made sense. I wasn’t being acknowledged because I was the rock star’s sister. Or because I was a hot metal momma. No, it was because I was walking around with the letters C.L.A.B.T. on my chest and on my back.

So you could see them coming and going. Along with the name of the band and the appropriate demon graphics on the shirt I sported.

I thought the letters were an acronym for some anti-establishment, anti-government theme, like all the other craziness around me. Damn my sister, and her bad sense of humor.

It was with great delight that my brother Stretch, informed me I was advertising for his rival band. (Oops. Who knew?)

And I was also loudly proclaiming to the world that I had a C@nt Like A Bear Trap.

Which would explain why I got so many dudes offering me their phone numbers that night.

Which would also explain why I left the gig, very hastily.

And would also explain why I have never borrowed another shirt from my evil sister.

So, if any one ever asks you if you have a C.L.A.B.T, dear internet, at least you will know what they mean.

Thanks for the education Stretch. I’m looking forward to the day I can return the favor.

Warning, this post is ridiculously long, and filled with inappropriate subject matter. Any Japanese exchange students who should not be reading this, please close the window, now. Thank you. Any one over 18 years old, feel free to continue.

Let’s talk sex. No reason to be shy about the subject. We’ve all had it. Granted, some have had it more than others, but let’s try not to get jealous, shall we?

Frankly, with all the talk of babies and impending births around the blogosphere, it’s enough to get this momma into the mood. (It’s hard to hear all the voices in my head, with the ticking from my biological clock getting louder every second…)

As a woman who has been in a relationship with the same man for almost 13 years, married for nine and half of those years, and best yet, have known her beloved Boo since she was in diapers, well, suffice it to say, there is little mystery left.

Frankly, it’s a bit of a miracle that when we see each other naked we don’t run screaming in the opposite direction.

To counteract this er, boredom, I have gone to great measures to keep things, um, up.

We’ve had couch sex (kinda loses something when you both fall off..), floor sex (but really, is rug burn worth it?), and counter top sex (not so fun for the tailbone, and more to the point, I prepare food for my children on that surface….). Over the years there hasn’t been a surface area we haven’t tried to christen.

(Please understand, dear internet, we were very young and stupid when we started bumping uglies. We had a lot more stamina a decade, and three children ago.)

But now, it’s hard to hear the soft moans and little pants over top the creaking and cracking of our joints. Quite the aphrodisiac, I assure you.

So what is a happily married couple to do?

Keeping in mind, I am the world’s biggest prude. (Sort of an oxymoron, with me putting my private bedroom moments out for the world to ridicule, I am aware.)

That effectively rules out, well, pretty much everything. Sure, we’ve tried toys and videos, but if it requires electricity of any sort it just seems not worth it. Who has time to find batteries or go and turn the damn video player on, because one of our darling kids put the remote in the trash bag when I wasn’t looking.

We’ve tried dirty talk, but that just makes me laugh my ass off. Not quite the effect my hubs had in mind when he asked if I wanted to be his dirty girl. Apparently, my giggles have a some what wilting effect on parts of his anatomy.

We’ve done food. But rubbing each other with whipcream or chocolate just reminds each of us of dessert and instead of leading to passionate love making, we get sidetracked and end up in the kitchen making sundaes and then toddling off to bed with our full bellies and never finishing what we had meant to start in the first place.

There is an upside to this problem. (I think.) At least we still desire to do it. Perhaps not always with one another, but our libidos do exist. There hasn’t been a need for pharmaceutical interventions just yet.

But, after thirteen years, it is hard to feel that passion, that spark, that certain excitement that new lovers experience. No, there have been too many fights, too many tears, too many times you have had to pass him a roll of toilet paper as he sits on the throne. There have been too many intimacies. Teeth picking, farting in bed and my personal favorite, child birthing.

(Of course, all that physical intimacy leads to emotional intimacy, but that’s a post for another day.)

And as anyone in a relationship knows, sex is a big part of the equation. With out sex, you may as well be in a relationship with your brother. (Or your cousin, as many of Boo’s relatives know…)

Boo and I have worked hard to plow through our sexual minefield. We overcame mismatched sex drives, lethargy, laziness and lately, his absences. It’s sort of hard to get your groove on when he is in another town.

Now that the kids are older, it also brings in a new twist. How quiet can we do it? It’s kind of like having sex in your bedroom while your parents are upstairs watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. Not that I’d ever know anything about that, of course.

When the kids were younger, if they barged in on us and asked why Daddy was on top of Mommy, we’d simply tell them we were wrestling. And then tell them to go watch The Lion King for the umpteenth time. (I never said I was the parent of the year.)

Now, if they barge in on us, they have a fairly good idea that we aren’t, in fact, wrestling. Case in point, this summer, the hubs and I decided to get our groove on while the kids were outside, playing on the trampoline. We thought we would indulge in a little afternoon delight. Unbeknownst to us, the little buggers had snuck back in for a snack while we were, er, busy. (Thank God we locked the bedroom door.)

When we were all dressed and satisfied, my hubs wandered out to get a drink, when the kids surprised him in the kitchen. They asked what we were doing and why the bedroom door was locked, and Boo told them we were talking about Shalebug. (Sorry, dear angelboy. Your daddy is not a quick thinker…)

My darling Fric, is, however, quick on the uptake. She knew something was up. She loudly asked why, if we were talking about her departed brother, was mommy moaning and telling daddy that it felt so good.

Yea.

I avoided their prying eyes for the rest of the day. I might as well have just opened up the bedroom door and given the little dudes an x-rated show.

So sex can be a bit of a chore around these parts. But I like to think that practice will eventually make perfect. Or at least a good red wine can help.

We keep our doors closed, our mouths shut, and we just keep trying. Because if we stop trying to have sex, we stop trying to master our marriage.

But there was one thing we forgot.

Last night, in the heat of the moment, things were looking pretty good. (Wink, wink.) Just when that magic moment was going to happen for a certain husband who shall remain anonymous, tragedy struck.

Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog. Ever, became a little concerned for his mommy. And decided he should check on her. And as he passed by a certain anonymous husband’s bare ass, he decided to do what any good doggie would do.

He gave it a sniff. And then he licked it.

Apparently, it was a bit of a mood killer. Who knew?

So if you happen to see a certain snarly-faced man, with a bad attitude roaming your street, do yourself a favour.

Don’t ask him how his night went. And certainly don’t inquire about his dog.

Because not everyone likes an ass-licker.