Read Blacklisted from the PTA Online
Authors: Lela Davidson
Blacklisted from the PTA (10 page)
—
LET
’
S SAY RELAXED
—with a long time partner, many couples commit to a date night. Before you do, consider a refresher course in dating etiquette. Here are some Do’s and Don’ts to keep in mind for successful dating.
DO make an effort to look your best. The shorts you wore to garden or mow the lawn are not appropriate date night attire, no matter how comfortable.
DON’T point out the dieter’s special on the menu. Eating light on a date is one thing; suggesting it to your date is reserved for the pre-committed relationship phase.
DO shave if you need to. This is a hard and fast dating rule and it doesn’t matter that you already did it once today. Do it again.
DON’T ask if you’re getting lucky tonight. If you are, you’ll know soon enough. If not, you’ve now ruined your chances for next time, too.
DO talk about something besides your pets and/or children. Your spouse is not nearly as interested in them as you think. Ditto for your boring job.
DON’T keep checking Facebook or the score on whatever game you’re missing. You will be back to your pathetic existence-as-usual soon enough. Enjoy the moment you’re actually in.
DO give each other some privacy to get ready. There’s nothing that spoils the mood so much as your date watching you tame the rogue eyebrow.
DON’T accept any old excuse to skip date night. The dog’s toenails can be clipped tomorrow. In fact, those suckers can go for months.
DO build up the excitement with some pre-date flirtation. If you don’t know how to sext, just ask that high school kid next door.
There you are—refreshed and completely primed for your next adventure in dating. And one last don’t: if you don’t follow my advice, don’t say I didn’t warn you!
P
RESIDENT AND
F
IRST
L
ADY HAVE MADE IT PUBLIC THAT THEY
embrace date night. If the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth, responsible for maintaining world peace and keeping the markets from spiraling ever downward, can commit to a regular date night, what’s stopping you? Sure, the Obamas have more than their share of reasons to skip date night, but let’s not overlook their advantages. Despite all the responsibilities facing the First Couple, they have a few things going for them:
• The Obamas have a limo and driver, which leaves little chance of getting in a fight on the way to the restaurant because Barack won’t stop to ask for directions. ~ You have a minivan with Chick-Fil-A ground into the seats and a collection of pinecones from the state park rolling around the back. Sexy.
First Lady Michelle Obama stated in an interview that her big moment of realization of just how important date night really is came when one of their daughters mentioned how much she loved seeing her parents hold hands and go out on a date. Remember that next time you feel selfish leaving the kids behind. Call me, I’ll come over for Secret Service duty.
I
WRITE A COLUMN GIVING ADVICE ABOUT HOW TO HAVE ROMANTIC
date nights with your spouse. I’ve encouraged married folk to commit to a regular date night, shake things up with novel activities, and take that extra time to prepare for and flirt with their spouses. I’ve profiled happily married couples and even created a primer on how to date like the Obamas. I’m such a fraud.
My own dating life is not so healthy. My dates lack the romantic spark I advocate. On a recent Saturday night, for example, my husband and I experienced the rare thrill of being childless for a few hours. I sat on his lap and told him there was something I wanted to do. Before he even had time to ponder the possibilities, I laid it on him: what I really, really wanted—was Sam’s Club.
I wasn’t lured by the flattering fluorescent lighting or the possibility of making out in a pleather recliner in the furniture aisle. No, I needed to scope out the food options for the fortieth birthday party I was throwing myself. (In more romantic couples, the person not actually having the big milestone birthday might be the one to plan the party, but this is about us.)
First we stopped at the optical counter, where I talked John into some stylish new frames. A few minutes later we shared samples of Goldfish crackers and compared the price of meat and cheese trays. He told me he’d take care of everything for the party, which is not how it will work, but it sounded nice, and saying pretty things is half of romance.
A particularly zesty looking tray of enchiladas wouldn’t let us go. We picked them up to pop into the microwave at home. Our hot date would now include a romantic meal. The free appetizer course was served in store: pizza, granola bars, and sausage.
We saw and were seen. Among the thirty-pound bags of avocados and lifetime supplies of Pop Tarts, we found people we knew—a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker. Turned out Sam’s was the place to be that Saturday night.
There were no cute jeans, no sexy shoes. I didn’t blow out my hair or retouch my makeup. But it was nice. This errand I could have done on my own was as good a date as any. Doing it together reminded me of how life used to be before the business end of our family got so big it required dividing up all the little tasks that used to bring us together.
We went home and shared those enchiladas in the living room like old times. John tried to sit next to me on the love seat, but it wasn’t comfortable and we’ve got nothing to prove. He headed over to the recliner, where I was welcome to join him for a make out session—or not. And he let me pick the movie.
Maybe I’m not such a fraud after all.
I
SAT DOWN WITH A RETIRE
-
MENT
specialist to discuss our financial future. I am the consummate multi-tasker, so I may have erroneously referred to this as a lunch “date.” Or maybe it was no accident.
Not that it wasn’t romantic. Especially digging through our files to find copies of what we fondly refer to as “coffee money,” aka our combined 401k accounts, Roth IRAs, and statements from some option we bought during one or another bubble.
Several years ago we sat down in a bright Dallas office of Charles Schwab and worked out a suitable asset allocation based on our low tolerance for risk and high desire to have a lot of money someday. After that, life interfered. The systematic review of our assets went the way of date nights. That is to say, it was neglected.
Then there was the whole stock market issue. Remember 2009? Or don’t. Neither my husband nor I had the stomach to look at our accounts for months. I kept telling him, “Don’t worry, everyone’s in the same boat.” When the communal sigh of relief was heard throughout the land as the Dow began to rise, our portfolio was still looking like a latte finance plan. I switched my encouragement to, “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not a trailer park; it’s a mobile home community.”
Because it was a date, and because my husband was coming from work, where he is still expected to wear something a notch up from yoga pants and flip flops, I dressed for our appointment with the banker. As I pulled on big girl slacks, I thought I’d better not gain weight, or lose it either. Ever. These may be the last nice clothes I’d ever own.
We were greeted, served coffee, and showed to an office where our retirement specialist explained to us the process of mapping out best case and acceptable case scenarios for our non-working future. We spent what I thought was an inordinate amount of time discussing the age at which my husband would retire.
“Fifty-five is ideal,” he said.
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “That’s in ten years. You have no hobbies. What would you do with the rest of your life?” And, I thought, I’ll be fifty. My need for cosmetic procedures will just be ramping up and those are not cheap.
“Okay, sixty.”
“Sixty-five.”
“You know,” the nice woman with the calculator said, “there are considerable benefits to waiting until you’re sixtyseven to stop working.”
“Ha!” I said. Such a romantic.
After a brief discussion of Social Security and far fewer questions about our saving and spending habits than I expected, we came to the “extras” section of the interview. This is where my husband asserted his need in retirement to buy a boat—a big one.
“Except I want to buy it now,” he told our trusted counselor.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll work that into the calculation.” She turned to me. “One last question—how do you want me to treat your income? Should I count it as extra or include it in the overall forecast.”
“Put it toward my world travels,” I told her.
“Your travels?”
“Best case scenario.” She turned to John. “Did you know about the traveling?” He shrugged. “She doesn’t like my boat.”
,
IT
’
S A
wonder anyone’s having any fun at all. Here are the top ten stupid date night ideas I found on the Internet. (I swear I did not make these up.)
0. Put on your sexiest stilettos and sip fancy cocktails at a hotel bar.
I’m hoping the heels are for the ladies, but still. Watch your step. You won’t feel too sexy on the stretcher en route to the nearest ER.
Ah… the classic. Remember that what passes for sexy in the movies does not necessarily translate into your real life. Unless you really enjoy taking baths and you and your lovahhh can fit neatly into the tub together, this play might be out of your league. Then again, bubbles hide a multitude of [cheesecake] sins.
Slurping oysters from the shell is supposed to be hot. Perhaps, but if you’re leery about tomatoes and bagged spinach, raw seafood may not be in your comfort zone.
Again, I did not make this up. One site actually suggested putting on a sexy outfit and knocking on the bedroom door. This is disturbing and wrong. Plus, unless you’re a size two, the naughty nurse costume is a little scary.
Uh huh. If you’re going to try this, I suggest you first program the number of a great chiropractor into your cell phone and keep it within reach. Better yet, leave it with your neighbor, as she’ll likely be the one to rescue you from your twisted little love knot.
Maybe your house is cleaner than mine. Maybe your carpet is newer. I’m just saying. Getting too close to my floor would quickly transform any romantic ideas into fantasies of having the steam cleaner guy come twice a year instead of once.
Is it just my husband, or would your guy also draw a stick figure with boobs?
Nothing gets me hotter than nasal burning chlorine and swimming in kid pee. You?
Seriously? Coffee mugs? Shoot me now.
And my all time favorite:
1. Give each other haircuts.
What can I say? I hope you have a pre-nup.
,
MINE
—
WITH HIS FAT
paycheck, full head of Richard Gere hair, and sly smile—would be the Power Ball. He takes care of his kids, makes me laugh, and is great in bed. (Don’t tell him I said that—any of it.) Bonus: he’s handy. Not snake-the-toilet handy—Bob Vila handy.
His skills have saved us thousands over the years, and currently subsidize my twice-monthly housekeeper habit. John changes oil and brakes, makes filtered water flow, and spackles my drywall. He doesn’t complain about these jobs, which are always more difficult and time consuming than they should be.
We fell in love with our house six years ago. Relocating from out of state, we had two harried realtors and forty-eight hours to make a decision. Our favorite feature was the two-story living room and its arched windows flooding light in every direction. We didn’t notice the six canister lights on the ceiling—twentyfive feet up—until some time after closing.
When we moved in I placed lamps all over the room and pretended the dull overhead lighting didn’t exist. We could have lived like that forever without changing a single bulb if John hadn’t insisted on using the damn things.
For years John pondered what to do at the first bulb fatality. When one of the easy-access lights in the kitchen popped, he replaced it at its ten-foot perch and sweated over the eventual death of one of those unreachable living room lights, trying to estimate how many hours of life remained. I humored him, joining debates over the relative merits of ladders versus scaffolding versus accessing the cans through the attic. It always ended with John imploring the cosmos, “Why the hell would anyone put lights up so high?”
When the inevitable happened it hit him hard. John spent weeks looking at the ceiling, searching for his strategy. I discovered he’d opted for the attic route when I was folding laundry and a light casing crashed to the floor, accompanied by a grunt. He’d have to fix that now too.
He beamed coming down the stairs. The glow disappeared when he flipped the switch to find it still dead. He’d missed the location and replaced one perfectly good bulb with another. I reminded him that we didn’t need to turn on those lights. Ever. But he insisted, so we agreed to change them all at once. I suggested hiring a service. Once you pay someone to clean the toothpaste ring out of your bathroom sink, there’s not much you won’t outsource.
John wanted to do the job himself so we moved furniture and rugs, and leaned a borrowed ladder against the wall. Wanting to be as useful as my prize of a husband, I planned to do a thorough cleaning under the sofas where I expected to find entire colonies of dust loving creatures. All I found was the shiny wood flooring John installed last winter.
As my devoted husband climbed, the ladder wobbled terribly. How could I not picture him plummeting to the floor like two hundred ten pounds of raw meat? I wondered what widowhood might look like. Adrenaline shot through my core as I realized I’d probably have to give up the housekeeper.
We moved around the room, him taking new and old bulbs on each trip up and down the shaky ladder and me with my foot firmly wedged at its base. I knew that should something go wrong, my hundred and twenty pounds wouldn’t stop any tragedy and could in fact, render my children orphans. (Oh sure they’d love it, but that’s another essay). Once we had a system going, my mind wandered.
What would I do if he fell? It’s not like I could score another like him. Hitting the Power Ball is a once in a lifetime deal. Once you’ve won, what’s the point of wasting your money on scratchoff tickets? Still, I made a mental note to Google “respectable period of mourning.” I do look great in black.
Concentrating to keep my post at the ladder, my eyes were on John’s legs, but my mind escaped to that great looking guy in the carpool line and the green-eyed boy at The Gap who almost sold me those awful jeans because he kept saying my name. This imaginary widowhood was nothing but a harmless fantasy, right?
Of course I was relieved—happy even—when he came down safely from the ladder that final time. Jackpot husband intact. Only a fool would dream of anything else. But in case I decide to further indulge the dark side of my imagination, I’ll have my chance.
Tomorrow he’s checking bent roof tiles.