My husband is a very amorous guy. He’s romantic and touchy-feely and sweet, three things I’m mostly not. He’s constantly rubbing up against me, so I didn’t think much of it one recent Sunday morning when he basically started to give me a full-body massage at the kitchen sink.

“You want a piece of this?” he whispered in my ear.

Please picture this scenario: It’s about seven-thirty in the morning, I’m scrubbing dishes from the night before, and the kids are sitting at the table 10 feet from me eating jellybeans. (It was Easter morning, okay?) I’m in my big fuzzy robe, I probably have crusty zit cream on my chin and I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.

“Um, I’m good at the moment,” I muttered back.

He leaned into my ear again. “But it’s Easter.”

“And?” I asked, turning to face him, thoroughly confused.

“It’s a holiday,” he stammered. “You know, holidays… are… like… sure things, aren’t they?”

I had to stifle a laugh.

“First of all, we’re not even religious,” I reminded him. “Second of all, your birthday, our anniversary, Valentine’s Day and maybe even St. Paddy’s day–if you make me corned beef–are the only sure-thing holidays. It’s not like I’m automatically giving it up just because it’s Groundhog Day. Unless we’re on vacation.”

“God I love vacation sex,” he said with a sigh.

The good news is, I think I’m going to get a nice trip out of this.