It is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man who is stuck in the house with nothing to do for weeks on end must be in want of a kick in the ass.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I love my husband. I love him a lot. He’s a handsome, smart, funny guy, he knows how to fix my dishwasher, is an awesome kisser and he even remembers to close the lid on the toilet seat. Now that the Red Sox have won the World Series–twice!–I wouldn’t trade him for anything. However, like my Visa, he’s everywhere I wanna be. At least while I’m trying to write.

You see, he’s been laid up for the past month with an injured leg–in fact he spent a few weeks in the hospital–so his daily exertion consists of trips to the powder room. Other than that, this typically active man (he’s climbed Mt. Katahdin no less than twelve times) spends his days holding down the couch. Oddly enough, in spite of my feminist nature, I don’t mind waiting on him. He’s a good man who’s in some pain and needs my help…what could be hotter than that? So, that’s not the problem. The problem can be best illustrated by the following recent conversation:

Hubby: Hey, Kel. What’cha doin?
Me: I’m revising chapter 16. [insert detailed description of said revisions here.]
Hubby: Oh.
Me: Why? Do you need something?
Hubby: Nope.
Me: Pain meds? Water? The remote con–
Hubby: Nope.
Me: Okay.

[Eight minutes later]

Hubby: Hey, Kel. What’cha doin?
Me: Still revising.
Hubby: Oh. Well…I’m bored. Wanna play cards or Yahtzee or something?
Me: Can you give me half an hour?
Hubby: I guess…

[Three minutes later]

Hubby: Hey, Kel…

Obviously, my computer and I will be hiding in a cave during NaNoWriMo.