October 14 1998

NNETTE MARTIN

 

s our anniversary approached, I
found myself pondering the merits
of various romantic festivities: a
andlelight dinner in some out of the way
ook; an evening walk in the glow of a
eautiful sunset; the thrill of holding
ands under a moonlit sky; a dozen long-
emmed red roses delivered to our door.
Il of these sounded too good to be true,
b I told myself that I would settle for my
orkaholic husband taking a day off. By
y reckoning, it had been 17 straight days
if work, including a stat holiday.
I can be devious as well as romantic
hen I want to be, so I enlisted the aid of
ne boss’ wife and the office staff, and my
bouse found himself confronting a female
of solidarity. He would be taking that
articular day off wouldn't he? He would.
What luxury! We contemplated 24
purs in each other's company. What
nould we do with this gift of time? Drive
t to Harrison Lake? Picnic in Stanley
ark? Walk along English Beach? Ride the
paBus to Lonsdale Quay? We favoured
anley Park where, years ago, we had spent
any happy hours BC (Before Children),
t we kept all options open.
The sun shone brilliantly on the day of
r anniversary, and we reminisced that our
pdding day had been just as lovely. Then
r. Anniversary dropped the first cloud
o the weather forecast.
“T’m just slipping into the store for a
minutes, while you take your car to the
echanic. I won't be long, and then we'll
nVe.
An hour later, not trusting him any-
ere near a business establishment, I
ed the store. Yes he had been spotted
ing to a customer, but he really was
ving this minute, and would pick me up,
the garage. Hmmm!
“Sorry! Sorry!” He began when he final-
arrived. “The traffic was held up on the
Dass.”
I sent him a scornful look, that encom-
ssed the bulging briefcase half hidden
ind his seat. “What's in the briefcase?”
“Briefcase? Oh that...er...just a few

 

Using sexuality as filler since 1976

papers I have to drop off in the Vancouver
store.”

“What!”

“Well, we're practically driving right
past.”

At the Vancouver store, I followed him
inside, hoping that my presence might

deter any further business dealings for the _

day. The strategy worked until we returned
to the parking lot, just as the company
truck was pulling in.

“Oops! I'd better help with
this delivery. It’s a heavy
one.”

I pulled out my
library book, and
turned on the car
stereo.

Eventually he
rejoined me, and
we drove away.

“Now can we
go to Stanley
Park?”

“Yes of
course, we'll be
driving right
through on our way
to the North Shore.”

“Why are we going to
North Vancouver?”

“There's someone I have to
see—only for a few minutes I promise.”

I waved at Lost Lagoon as we roared
past on the Causeway. :

When we arrived, the person he had to
see was otherwise engaged, so we amused

ourselves at a nearby mall by searching for

office supplies my husband needed for
work, and buying the ultimate in sentimen-
tal anniversary gifts—a package of vacuum
cleaner bags. Every woman's rothantic
dream.

By the time he had completed his “few
minutes” of business chores, it was time to
go home. The day had been an anniversary
to remember, although not exactly how I
had imagined, and I would certainly bear
it in mind when planning future romantic
days with a workaholic.

  
 
    
 

Obviously, this marriage needed some
kindling to re-ignite the old spark, and on
my next trip to the library I spotted the
answer in a magazine article entitled, ‘How
To Keep Your Marriage Sizzling!’

“Forget those pecks on the cheek,” cooed
the writer, “every marriage can sizzle with
three 30-second kisses per day.” Apparently,
the trick is to engage in meaningful kissing
without sexual touching, leaving a ‘promise
for later’ with your partner.

That evening I showed my hus-
band the item. “Wanna try?” I
winked at him. “Nudge,
nudge, how about it?”
“Sure,” he agreed,
“But there’s just one
problem.”
“What now?”
“How are we
going to time the
30 seconds?”
He had a good
point there; after
all, the article had
been quite specific
about the length of
time necessary to sizzle.
A few seconds short
might not achieve our goal,
and who knew what might hap-
pen if we carried on for too long?

I slipped off my watch and draped it
over one of my husband's ears. “Go for it
Big Boy” I whispered, right there in the
kitchen. We did, but a little too enthusiasti-
cally, and my watch fell off onto the
counter behind us. “Damn! I hope the
glass didn’t break.”

“Let's try the kitchen timer,’ he suggest-
ed, setting it for 30 seconds.

“But, when do we push the start button?
If we wait until we lock lips, we won't be
able to see the right button.”

By the time we worked out that dilem-
ma, our son had wandered into the kitchen
wondering why dinner wasn't being cooked.

“What are you two doing with the
timer?” he asked.

“Oh nothing!” we chorused. “Haven't

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Tatar ye I)

cepins rotnatice alive after 20 plus Years iith a Workaholic

you got homework to do?”

We tried the automatic timer again,
keeping one finger on the start button until
the kiss commenced. Um-ummmn,, this
was going well. Then, a-a-ah (Please, NO!)
Achoo!

“Well, that was sure romantic,” said my
husband passing the Kleenex.

“Oh come on” I coaxed, “Third time
lucky. Let's just wing it. After all, we've got
three sets of 30 seconds to catch up on
just for today alone.” And for the third
time that evening we clutched each other in
our best approximation of a passionate
embrace.

At the precise moment that I was
attempting the heroine's kissing stance (one
leg bent at the knee in ecstasy) the cat
ambled into the kitchen and decided to
join the game, winding his tickling, bushy
tail around my bare legs. I lost my balance,
teetering backwards over the feline who
fled in terror, and us two passion
wannabees landed in an undignified heap
on the kitchen carpet.

“What exactly do you two think you're
doing?” demanded our indignant daughter,
staring down at us from her regal height of
five feet, two inches.

Good question.

“Make a note,” said my partner, as he
helped me to my feet. “No kids and no
cat—agreed?” I nodded.

A few weeks later, my husband came
home from work, and whispered those
eight little words guaranteed to set a
woman's heart a-flutter. “Four nights in a
hotel—without the kids.”

He had my attention instantly, and out
of the side of my mouth I murmured,
“Tell me more.”

“Business trip. Expense account.
Entertaining.”

This man has a way with words.

I murmured breathlessly, “I’m your
woman,” and promptly set off to search for
something short, black and see-through.

Then reality set in. “What will we do
with our son?” I wailed, knowing that if
the teen stayed home with his older sister,
the Apocalypse would be overwhelmed by
the mayhem at our house. My husband just