A Room of One's Own

One of the days I dread as a parent came the other day.  No, not that one...  The one where my little Drama Queen found my stash of "mommy humor" books and decided to peruse them.

Now, I know it was totally my fault for leaving them in MY BOOKCASE, with MY BOOKS, with strict instructions that the books in the study were Mommy and Daddy's books so leave them alone.  In fact, last time I checked, the kiddos were told not to even play in that room.  But, I digress...

Anyway, she found my funnies.  And decided to start reading one of my personal favorites--"I Was a Really Good Mom, Before I Had Kids."  Complete with a cute little quiz at the beginning of each chapter.  And she saw, among other embarrassing things, that I had checked off the little box indicating that "yes, I sometimes dream of having my own apartment."

Well, she melted down.  Complete, weeping, hysteria.

"Mommy, why, why, why do you want to have your own apartment!!!  Don't you love us!!!???"

Yes, my dear lovebug.  I love you.  I adore you.  I worship the ground your sweet little niblet-like toes walk on.

But, yes.  I would love my own apartment.  Heck, I'd be thrilled to have my own room.  Or even a stinking corner.

I think Virginia Woolf had it right when she wrote her essay about how women need a room of one's own.  Now, granted, she was talking about women writers, and women fiction writers in specific (I'm basing this on my semi-cognizant memories of college when I was actually in class...paying attention).  But, her words strike a cord in almost every heart of every woman (especially mom) out there.  Nor am I saying Woolf was filled with great ideas--she did after all fill her pockets with stones and, well, go swimming.  But, she did have something there with the whole room thing.

Men dream of their "man caves" (or, as one of MacGyver's friends put it more bluntly--a PMS bunker) and talk about filling it with big screen TVs, stereo systems, surround sound, leather furniture, and a wet bar.

Women dream of a room where no one can disturb them under any circumstances under penalty of death (or at least extended time-outs), and they can't hear the ruckus of family life for just an hour or so.  You know, a soundproofed room, inside and out, where we can relax in total silence.

Basically, we want a "panic room".  A really nicely decorated panic room.

My room would not have a handle on the outside, so when I was locked inside, no little hands could wiggle the knob or pick the lock (yes, the little DQ can pick a lock.  It's actually kind of frightening.  I don't know if she has a future as a locksmith or a cat burglar, but her little talent has come in handy--and not so handy--more than once).  It would be hermetically sealed so no notes about what one child has done or said to another could be slipped under the door.  No husbands could ask where the toilet paper, ketchup, or remote control was while I was relaxing.  No phone calls about playdates or Club Penguin would disturb my rest.

And there would be no leather furniture there.  Just a big, comfy, overstuffed chair with pillows and a soft throw.  And an ottoman, to rest my tired piggies.  And books.  Lots of books!  Without pictures, and that didn't involve stories about fairies or steam shovels.

I'd like to say how I'd have a little tea pot and yummy snacks in my panic room, but let's be realistic.  I'm not usually a tea and cookie gal.  I'm a candy-colored vodka martini or fancy top-shelf margarita girl.  With chips and guac.

Ahhhhh,  I can almost feel the chenille of the pretty throw, and the sigh of the overstuffed chair.  If I try really hard, I can smell the fruity essence of a drink with an umbrella in it.  I imagine reaching for my trashy novel, and....

Oops--there's the bus.  Bunnies of all sizes are bopping down the steps, and running and shrieking into the houses, looking for hugs and snacks and attention.

Oh well.  Some day.  Some day I'll have my panic room room of my own...

Date Night

Ahhhh---remember the days when you and your hubby (or SO) would spontaneously decide to go out for drinks and dinner, and maybe catch a movie?  At, oh, say--9:00 at night?

Cold drinks in a smoky bar with jazz or blues in the background?

Fusion food or sushi in a cool restaurant with rooftop seating?

A movie that had subtitles, or at the very least, was in a quaint artsy cinema that only showed late night movies?

Yeah, me neither...

These days, date nights are few and far between.  And, when we do get out (every few months or so), it's usually for discount happy hour drinks and appetizers (hey, they're cheaper than dinner and you get variety!) and a matinee movie.

Why?

Well, partly because MacGyver and I are total cheapskates and hate to "waste" money on dinners and movies when I can just as easily make dinner and watch On-Demand.   Or DVR'ed movies.  Or Net-Flix.  If we could even stay still (hey--I've got laundry folding to do!) or even agree on the show (aliens?  UFOs?  Big Foot?  Really????)

And, because our "babysitters" are my parents, and I hate asking them for help constantly.  Not that it really is "constantly", but it feels that way.

Then, there's the whole "I guess I need to shave my legs and find clean clothes that fit" conundrum.  I hate spending money on my own clothes since I'm convinced that my current body is just temporary.  I still consider it "baby weight", even though my "baby" is five years old, and this special extra padding is only three years old.  Yep, do the math.  This small problem is actually not the Wild Man's fault.  Anywho, unless Ann Taylor Loft has some lovely, dirt cheap, yet cute, clothes whose sizes are mysteriously missing the first "one" digit, I'm not buying a darn thing.  And really, at this point in my life I'm still usually covered in kiddie-boogers, boob stains, and applesauce.  So, what's the point of spending more than $20 on jeans or $5 on t-shirts when they'll just be destroyed in a month or so.  Now, MacGyver doesn't have this problem.  Lucky bastard still weighs and looks the same as he did in college, when we met.  He still rocks his H&M jeans and Hugo Boss polos.  Last time I checked, he did not have a boob stain on his shirt, or applesauce on his chinos.  I guess I could blame it on the fact that he gets to go to work each day (before the kiddos are up, and looking to wipe their hands or faces on someone or something) and therefore has fewer hours of munchkin time to get dirty.  But really, I suspect he's just far more hygienic than me.

And finally--it would require both of us to stay up past 9:00 pm.  Oh, for crying out loud--who are we kidding??!!  We're lucky if one, or both, of us aren't snoring in front of the TV by 8:30.  And, no--I'm not exaggerating one bit.  The idea of watching a movie at an actual movie theater where the show doesn't end until 10:30 and there's no chores to do during the "boring" parts makes me almost break out in hives.  Plus, what if we don't like the movie?  It's a lot easier to blow off a video you spend $1.99 on at Red Box than a new release you spent $25 or $30 on (before popcorn, Junior Mints, and soda) to sit in a theater with hundreds of people crunching away on their snacks, checking their texts and Face Book, and whispering back and forth.  And that's before you realize you have your head on a chair that's had thousands of people resting on it, so I start to itch just imagining lice....

No, I'm not neurotic....

But, books and tv shows and therapists and other parents tell us how important "Date Night" is to a relationship.  That we need our time together, away from children and responsibilities.  That we need to be a couple.  And not a couple of looney-toons because the only time we've spent alone in the last week was when we were asleep.  Or, in the car commuting to work.

So, this coming weekend, MacGyver and I are going out.  To a movie.  And dinner.  Not in that order, since I'm still too cheap to pay full price for a dinner and drinks (and this date is my treat).  So it will be the two of us with the AARP crowd getting our early-bird specials and then buying movie tickets with my discount movie passes.  We will certainly be home before 10:00, and I'll probably still be giddy from my 1 1/2 happy hour drinks that I had 3 hours before (what can I say--I'm a cheap date.)  But, we'll be able to see a movie that is not made by Disney or Pixar, and we'll eat a dinner that didn't involve mac-n-cheese or tuna casserole.  And, it may be fun enough that we make it a resolution to date each other at least once a month.  I hope.