Newsflash to Mr. Italy: say “arrivederci,” the little woman’s not budging. Wifey-to-be saw the light and is staying put. She figured out that while she’s ironing Luigi’s Speedos, he’ll be applying sunscreen to bikini beach babes. When she’s sweeping sand out of the kitchen, he’ll be kicking it up, playing football with his buddies. Nope, she’s found her calling and it doesn’t include watching the beer-guzzling Man Show or discovering wadded up smelly socks stuffed in her lingerie drawer.

As hard as it is to believe, I am occasionally overcome with an urge to slip away. Well, maybe run off. OK, escape. I once considered sneaking off and becoming a nun myself, even hand-picking the convent. It had its own vineyard. I offered to lick, er, clean out the vats. No go. Mother Superior thought I’d have problems with the vow of silence. That, and my rosary beads hand-crafted from pull-tabs might be a distraction.

Another time I jumped in the minivan, backed out of the garage and let my mind wander off to a Tuscan villa, lounging by a pool and surrounded by fawning cabin boys. “Contessa, Contessa,” a voice rang out, growing more urgent as I rolled down the driveway. What had I forgotten? Was my wine glass only half-full?

“Run by the dry cleaners,” The Big Guy said, passing his rumpled work shirts through the open sunroof.

It’s not as if I haven’t attempted real getaways. I dropped hints, like taping a hill-country spa retreat brochure on The Big Guy’s golf bag. Bad move. He booked tee times at the country club. The only trip I took was walking 18 holes lugging his clubs.

I’m looking into another way to finagle a respite. Rehab. What could be finer than a week at the Betty Ford Clinic? Insurance pays the tab, you get three squares a day cooked by the next Wolfgang Puck (once he sobers up) and you hang out with celebrities who appreciate your wisdom.

“Mary-Kate, you’re starting to put on a little weight. Have you thought about cutting back on carbs? Mr. Duchovny, maybe you should try lay off the computers awhile and take up a hobby, like collecting coins.”

The best part of a rehab retreat is therapy. Imagine stretching out on a couch, without first kicking off a kid or dog, and telling your troubles to a man who actually listens, instead of faking it with nods, ahuhs, and okays. He’s fully engaged, peppering you with questions like “How does that make you feel?” instead of “Yeah, OK, sure, holy cow! Did You see Berkman rip that?”

If I did run off, I’m pretty certain there wouldn’t be a hunky lifeguard begging for my return. In fact, I doubt anyone would notice. Cat might, but only after cycling through all 36 Hollister Tee-shirts. If Bongo collapsed in front of their Wii, dog bowl in paw, Pinot and Grigio might catch on. Maybe they’d even ask questions, like when did I teach Bongo cool tricks? Sadly, it’d take the cable company disconnecting service to get The Big Guy’s attention. Even then, he’d probably head off to the big screens at Hooters.

Guess I’ll have to settle for an in-home escape, someplace no one will find me. I’ve got it – the laundry room. Only a madwoman would venture there. Ciao!

Danielle Schaaf is the co-author of “Don’t Chew Jesus!” and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com. Read more of what the Contessa has to say at www.hauteflashcontessa.blogspot.com.