Sex and the sweaty: the sequel
POSH AND I have been working on the tone we use with each other, which grows more clipped with every up-tick in the temperature.
“WAIT! WAIT!! WAIT!!!” she machine-guns me the other morning as I’m about to knife a fresh orange.
“What?”
“I still have half the one you cut the other day,” she says, opening the refrigerator.
“Oh.”
“Here,” she says, then throws a leftover orange at my head.
So, how’s your summer been going? Ours has been a little tense. Loving but tense. Intimate yet brittle. Seems all we do is worry about money.
Sure, the little girl has been off to summer camp, which saved us $11,000 in hair-care products over the course of the five days. So we’ll pocket some of that.
And I’m about to install a ceiling fan in the bedroom. Posh says it’s a good way to save on air-conditioning costs in what has already been a hot July.
“Is that what this is really about?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Sex. It’s always about sex with her lately. I’ve tried talking to her about pursuing other interests, developing hobbies. But all she wants is me-me-me.
“How many ceiling fans would you like in the bedroom?” I ask.
“Just one,” she says.
“Because I could install several,” I say.
“Just the one would be fine,” Posh says.
I’ve long insisted that a bad economy can be good for a marriage. Tough times force us to turn to each other for support. Besides, who can afford to go out anymore? Last week, I paid $6 for a gallon of milk. Six bucks! What kind of money are cows making these days?
So at least we have each other, Posh and I. To me, sex has always been the poor man’s yacht club. It is the one pleasure the greedy rich can’t take away from us -- though I’d hate to give them any ideas.
Anyway, here’s the ceiling-fan conundrum: You never realize you need a ceiling fan until it’s too hot to go up in the attic to install one. Frightfully hot. Jessica Alba hot.
As if the extreme heat weren’t enough, there are all sorts of other issues involved with climbing into our cramped attic. For instance, you never know whom you might meet up there. A possum? A poltergeist? An angel?
Our house, as you may know, is a deconsecrated church, so there are all sorts of spiritual forces still wandering about the rafters. We were going to have it tented, but we didn’t have anywhere to live for two days, other than a showing of that latest “Indiana Jones” movie, which just seems like it lasts two days. “Sex and the City” was another possibility, but if I want to watch whiny women in expensive shoes, I’ll just stay home.
“Where did you want the fan?” I ask Posh.
“Over the bed,” she says.
OK, let’s just pause and take a breath here. This kind of talk really makes me uneasy.
To be honest, I have a short and bizarre romantic past. My only other serious relationship was with a chubby nutritionist, blond as the summer sun. The relationship ended when she insisted that Raisinettes were a candy, not a fruit.
“And you’re supposed to be a professional?” I asked.
“By the way, cheeseburgers are not dairy products,” she snarled.
Wow. This woman, this alleged professional nutritionist, would also never admit that popcorn was a vegetable. I say good riddance, chubby nutritionist. Come back when you have your wits about you.
Oh, wait. I’m married now. Never mind.
Thing is, I’ve never really thought of Posh as a wife, per se. She’s more like a personal sorceress, who has a special way with kids.
Even our friends realize that it’s always been sort of complicated between us. She’s from old money; I’m from no money.
Also, it’s an interracial marriage. She’s Italian. I’m mostly Irish.
“Over the bed, huh?” I tell her with a wink.
“Um, how long is this going to take?” Posh asks.
“Are we still talking about the fan?”
OK, that’s how bad the economy has become -- married people like us are starting to flirt again. Romance is back.
That doesn’t surprise me, for what is romance but a fancy way of saying we need each other?
By the way, how’d you like to be the poor sap doing the phone survey for this alleged little trend?
“Hello, we’re doing a survey.”
“Fire away.”
“When was the last time you had sex?”
“Well, I’m married.”
“So, you don’t have sex?”
“No, actually I’m having sex right now.”
“I could call back.”
“That’s OK. We’re done.”
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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes .com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.
