I try to close my eyes and imagine I'm with George Clooney, but I can't get past why he would be with me. He might enjoy a change of venue, but my gut tells me it wouldn't be a step down, or in this case a step off a cliff. When I'm alone I can imagine being ravaged by some celeb-du-jour, but my eyes are squeezed shut so I don't blow the illusion.

Then there is my husband's stomach reminding me I'm not with gorgeous George. I use his burgeoning belly as a Pilate's workout ball. He's fine with it as long as I'm naked. I gave up my personal trainer when I realized how much money I could save.

At our age, fantasy play is more grounded. Brad becomes a semi-truck driver and I'm the horizontal highway hostess. It's a far enough stretch without being unattainable and our characters know they'll never see each other again. Unless we choose to come back to this particular truckers' paradise since he's on a regular route and he seeks me out from all the other hookers, but then it's a love story. Detached strangers are much more fun.

"Wow, you have a really nice set-up in here."

"Bet you've never seen a stick like this before."

"Oooooooo, that is impressive. Can I try shifting it?"

"That'll take a firm grip my little lot lizard. Take us to the hammer lane."

"Is that me or your air brakes screaming?"

"You really know how to handle a big rig. I hope I see you again at this chew and spew."

"Sure thing sweetie. Now how about putting your money where your mouth was..."

Of course Brad can do it anywhere, anytime and tune out the world, but I suffer from what I refer to as SADD (Sexual Attention Deficit Disorder). There isn't a pill for it yet, so it's always better if we leave the daily drudgery of home behind. I can become someone else much easier in fresh sheets without the sound of the drier clanging or the dogs barking at every leaf that falls outside. Just the thought of disruption can pull focus for a person afflicted with SADD. I used to worry about the kids walking in when they were really little, but now I realize they would be far more traumatized if they happened on us as teenagers. Until those memory-erasing guns from "Men In Black" are a reality, I always have one ear outside the room.

Hiding from the doorbell is the worst. I am better at ignoring the phone, but the doorbell still brings out a Pavlovian need to respond. I feel the person at the door knows we're home and is peering through windows to confirm their suspicions. The very fact that we're not answering implies something illicit. On the rare occasion we actually are in bed, the sound of the doorbell stops us cold like a game of freeze tag while we wait breathlessly for someone to release us from our humiliating pose. By the time the unwelcome visitor moves on, my mood ring has gone black. Gentlemen, restart your engines...

I hate unannounced visitors under any circumstances because I do not keep a tidy home. Forced to answer the door, I apologize immediately, "Please excuse the state of things, but we were just robbed this morning." And they believe me. The place does look like a crime scene. Some are beginning to question why we're the sole victims of a serial burglary ring. Trust me, if a thief can find something of value in our house, he's welcome to it. I sure as hell don't know where anything is. With my ability to accumulate, I'll end up buying the stolen item off of eBay without ever realizing it was taken.

"Look honey! I bought a troll doll!"

"Didn't you have one just like that as a kid? And don't you still have it?

"I don't want to ruin the original."

"You have no idea where it is, do you?"

"I think somebody stole it."

"You're starting to believe your own lies now."

"So what? You believe me when I say, 'I love you.' "

So when my husband takes me away from that comforting chaos, he's much more likely to bring out the passion. One of our best escapes happened at the Sybaris, a place geared toward romantic couples getaways. We stayed at the basic pool suite. Once you get past the fact you wouldn't want to shine a black light in a room designated for sexcapades, it is way more fun than a standard hotel. There is an indoor pool connected to the bedroom, along with a little fridge, complimentary champagne, comfy robes, a nice stereo, TV with VCR, microwave and steam room. Each suite is separate from everyone else's. It's like having a little mini cabin all to yourselves so I'm the one who can do all the barking here.

The one time we went, the kids were in school so we only had the afternoon. After performing geriatric water ballet in the private pool and retiring to the bed because we're not fit enough to do it in water without cushioned support, my favorite part was eating our pre-purchased sub sandwiches in bed, watching TV, catching glimpses of my breasts cradling the sandwich in the ceiling mirror, and drifting off to sleep blissfully undisturbed until the alarm ends our mini horny-moon.

On the flip flop (trucker lingo for the ride home) we are totally relaxed and refreshed, feeling like a couple of teenagers who had been sneaking around to hook up while ditching school.

"You put the plates back on the van?"

"Yeah, no need to get a ticket on the way home."

"Nobody saw you?"

"Nobody knows we were here. Just the guy at the front desk. And he winked at me. He thinks I'm having an affair."

"You wish."

We really need to connect like this more often. Brad wants to stop at a home store to buy mirrored tiles for the bedroom ceiling. Never mind ruining the possibility of fantasizing about any kind of stars, Hollywood or celestial, there goes the one spot I could focus on that was clutter free. But I'm feeling good. I'm not even thinking about Clooney, Brosnan or Pitt. And it doesn't matter that they'll never think about me.