OK, we're old. We remember the hully gully and what we were doing when we heard JFK had died.

Which means we're now in the same demographic that watches the evening news and golf. As such, we're subjected to a barrage of commercials promising relief for everything from loose dentures to enlarged prostates.

(Just once, wouldn't I love to see a beer commercial on the evening news. But as you know, no one over age 50 drinks anything but Metamucil.)

Anyway, among the commercials reminding us of our rapidly deteriorating bodily functions are those for men suffering from erectile dysfunction.

If this were 1957, the message would be delivered by an actor in a white coat pretending to be a doctor. But because we live in an era where nothing short of lizards dancing to "Thriller" will grab our attention for more than a nanosecond, ED, as we're now going to call it, somehow gets resolved by clambering naked into a bathtub stuck somewhere out in the wilderness.

Naturally, this is all preceded by activities such as a romantic dinner, a trip to the art museum or squatting around a campfire.

Lately, however, that no longer seems to be enough. Turns out today's foreplay includes painting chores and doing the laundry.

At least that's what the commercials are showing, as men inexplicably get their groove on, so to speak, while rolling paint onto a wall or folding towels with their significant others.

Suddenly, their eyes lock over the mismatched socks. The laundry room transitions into a cozy hideaway by the beach and the laundry basket becomes a table for two.

You betcha.

Even more farfetched is the commercial with the couple involved in painting chores. As she descends the ladder, presumably to slop more paint onto the roller, he grasps her hands.

Seconds later, that half-painted wall has been replaced with an idyllic forest. Ferns await, as do the inevitable bathtubs.

My friends, I can tell you from personal experience, I have painted many a wall with my husband. Fun, it is not.

If any passion erupted during the process, it tended to manifest itself as a longing to tenderly put our fingers around each others' necks and squeeze. Interminably.

Besides, when amor is done, who's gonna scrape all that dried-up paint off the roller and finish that wall?

I'm not sure how long this trend will continue, but if Madison Avenue is looking for ideas, here are a few more scenarios sure to rouse the ol' libido:

• He's mowing the lawn. She's pulling weeds. Suddenly, he stops the mower, which morphs into a hammock. Both are now in it, nuzzling. The weeds all become tulips. The grass stops growing. Cue the violins.

• The car won't start. He's fiddling with something under the hood. She's trying to turn on the ignition. All at once, it doesn't matter. The car becomes a candlelit barge with only these two on board. Presumably it will also get them to work on time.

• The toilet is backed up. He's trying to unclog it. She runs in with a plunger. Incredibly, it turns into a magic wand, obliterating their balky toilet and creating two claw-foot bathtubs - in the midst of a rain forest.

You know the rest.

Bonnie Henry's column appears Sundays and Mondays. Reach her at 573-4179 or at bhenry@azstarnet.com or write to 4850 S. Park Ave. Tucson 85714.