If this is what marriage looks like, I'll consider it

In what should have been a prequel to this post, I now present you with a photographic depiction of my warped view of what married life should look like not only during the first three "happy years" but on every anniversary, birthday, major and minor holiday, heck, every weekday thereafter as well.

Posh and Becks fashionably getting their marriage on in the new issue of W Magazine:

"It's Monday, but isn't that your Thursday garter belt? I'm sure it is, lemme see."

"The kids are fine. I think I can see them over there somewhere."

"Honey, I'm home!"

Weekly "date night" at the La Quinta "Mmmmm...Tantric Sunday tastes good..."

"All that suspended congress made me hungry -- you wanna hit up IHOP?"

A post-dinner tradition: the sexy pose-off

(Posh won this round)"Yeah, I guess we can try in here next...kids, move to the hood."

I can't think nor write in this GD heat

I sat down last night and then again this morning prepared to write a what-to-wear-in-99-degree-heat post complete with an unrelated picture of the baby lovepuff sleeping on top of my wallet - his way of ensuring I don't leave without arousing his "you're-leaving-me-alone-again??" fury - and more topic-appropriate recommendations from both "If I had a sugar daddy..." and "Since I don't (yet)" price points, but on both occasions, I got as far as promoting a threads-free Tantric Sunday, tissue-tees and v-plunge linen cover-ups before the AC-free stifle of my apartment (the pup and I both prefer jungle hot over a faux cool) caused a complete creative-writing meltdown.

So while I'm out doing my best poolside impression of Eva in Capri (coinslot included), do me a favor and grant me a teensy bit of slack on the minimal creative output you'll see here today.

The kind of slack, I guarantee you, I won't be granted elsewhere...

Old habits die hard. Real hard.

I could say it was due to laziness.

I could blame my selfish nature.

I could even say it was revenge for the "but you're not that interesting" comment A - my ex-boyfriend's self-proclaimed "heterosexual life partner" - threw my way as I left his house last Friday evening.

But in the end, I place full blame on China and its nonchalant attitude toward copyright law for desensitizing me during the years 2002-2004 to the point where this past week I guiltlessly engaged in two counts - here and here - of intellectual property thievery.

The trademarked property in question: "Tantric Sunday." The term, to be specific.

It's true, before sitting on A's back porch listening to pre-"Hypnotize" Notorious B.I.G., watching a real-life MSNBC documentary play out before my eyes with the halfway house residents who lived directly behind him enjoying their hour of "yard exercise" and listening on speaker-phone to saved voicemails of pissed-off girls with deep-South accents that were even more acutely deep-South-sounding given their Bacardi-and-Coke states, I had never before heard the term "Tantric Sunday." The meaning behind it, of course, yes, I was quite familiar with that, but the catchy two-word euphemism for an all-day, blow-off-church, blow-off-brunch, doin'-it-and-doin'-it-and-doin'-it-well Sunday -- no, this was new to me.

And while my intention was not to take credit for something to which I contributed not a scintilla of creative input, that was indeed, as A pointed out to me in a stinging Facebook write-up last night, the end result.

So to A, his partner in Tantric Sunday crime S, and anyone else who might have been offended or otherwise affected by my carelessness, I offer you a deep, deep, waaay-down-deep apology.