54. Date Night — Part One

Dinner and Ambience

A little more bitter than sweet.

Mr. Not-so-Wonderful almost ruined Date Night before it even began.

For the past 35 years, whenever Tim and I planned a Date Night it included three things: 1) an outdoor playday for the girls, 2) an early bedtime for the girls, 3) some dinner, a movie, a little dancing, and an early bedtime for the adults. In order to make numbers 1 and 2 happen — so number 3 could happen — Tim would take Hannah and Jessica to Rocketland, a playground in Auburn, so he could run them ragged.

The rocket playground was themed in honor of Robert Hutchings Goddard, the American engineer, professor, and physicist, who is credited with inventing and building the world’s first liquid-fueled rocket. Goddard was born and raised in Worcester, but the maiden rocket launch took place from a parcel of land that currently sits between the Auburn Town Library and fire station located at Drury Square. The town got bragging rights for the first ever 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 ‘liftoff’ and used those bragging rights wisely when they named the children’s park.

Anyway, back to the ramble. Tim would take the girls to Rocketland and let them ride bikes around the quarter mile track, or climb up, around, and through, an awesome wood structure with moving walkways, and chain and rubber ladders, and twisty tunnels and such that eventually deposited them at a gravel playground with bucket and tire swings, and a climbing apparatus worthy of Cirque du Soleil trainees, and plenty of vertigo-inducing spring mechanism animal seats that move back and forth, and left and right, simultaneously. I’m not sure which inventor came up with those dizzying-doozies, but just watching my kids move in all directions caused my innards some distress.

Anyway, while Tim was doing a preemptive tuckering out of our tots, I was home preparing our soiree. Our menu was set w.a.y. b.a.c.k. w.h.e.n. on our first at-home Date Night and never varied. For 35 years we had:

Shrimp Cocktail — the easy-peasy, delightfully delicious centerpiece of our nibble fest. I have some skills in the applianced room of my home, but I am not a culinary queen by any stretch of the imagination. If a recipe calls for a honey-mustard dipping sauce, I’ll grab honey from my cupboard, mustard from my fridge (upping my game by grabbing the Grey Poupon), mix the two together and call it a voila day. Not only am I not one to mix a sauce from scratch if I don’t have to — I am sooooo not one to skin or devein ANY land or sea creature I am readying to eat.

So — my shrimp preparation boils down to this: I open a plastic bag and remove from it 32-36 pieces of big-ass jumbo shrimp, drop them into a kettle of cold water, bring said kettle to a boil for the appropriate number of minutes, drain and rinse the pretty pinkish prawn under cold water for 2-3 minutes, then pop them into the fridge for several hours. We always make extra so there are some to nibble during Date Night afterglow.

Bow, chica, bow, bow!

Sidestep. Way back when, when the rugrats returned from the park, all rosy-cheeked, and too pooped to pop, they’d walk into the house and unison, “What stinks?”

To which their mother would reply, “Your dinner if you don’t get upstairs and into the tub right now.”

Their little feet would take to the treads before I finished my sentence.

Tim would follow them up with a ‘well done’ nod, prepare a bubble bath for two, dump in a ton of bath toys, and depending on their age, would either park his ass on the closed hopper to supervise, or mill about the upstairs while bubbly bath water bubbled the day’s dirt and sweat off of our cherubs.

Upon their return downstairs, they’d both unison their delight at their dinner offering — spiral or elbow or Spongebob mac and cheese. 

“Yes!”

I would send a smile Tim’s way and we’d do a little checklist rundown.

“Sufficiently tuckered?”

“Check.”

“Bathed and ready for bed.”

“Check.”

“Full bellies for a full night’s sleep.”

“Check.”

“Early bedtime.”

“Yes, please.”

“I meant for the kids.”

“Uh huh.”

That conversation happened every Date Night — Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful are nothing if not predictable.

This past Saturday, Tim was responsible for the shrimp prep, so into the pot went 12 pieces of shrimp. Why so few in number you might ask? Was Sheryll experiencing nausea and the thought of munching on cooked-to-perfection crustaceans generously dipped in cocktail sauce too much to bear? NO. It’s because my husband decided to go vegan on me and no longer had a Brad for shrimp.

Having a Brad.

Another sidestep. Decades ago, Tim used to work with a guy named Brad Hankin. Also, decades ago, whenever Tim wanted something out of the ordinary to eat he’d say something like, “I have a hankering for Chinese food.” One night, he had a slip of the tongue and said, “I have a hankin for Chinese food.” We laughed at his slip, then the two of us skipped happily toward OB lunacy. Before the conversation was over, we’d turned the silly slipup into lasting lingo. Ever since then, whenever we have a hankering for something out of the ordinary, we say we have a Brad. We’ve been doing it for so long now, and have said it in front of enough people, and in the presence of our kids often enough that, “Having a Brad,” is understood in our tiny universe.

So, while I was having a Brad for shrimp — Tim was having a Brad for something else.

When to tell the wife became Tim’s dilemma.

And another sidestep. When we were young and divvying up duties, of which I did the lion’s share because I was a stay-at-home mom and Tim spent l.o.n.g. h.o.u.r.s. at work, he latched onto grocery shopping as his primary divvy-duty. He enjoyed doing it — God only knows why — and weekends afforded him a good chunk of time for traipsing aisles.

I was fine with his schlepping and shopping for the family for three reasons: 1) I never liked grocery shopping. I found it boring, probably because I didn’t visit the culinary aisles where the cool people shopped for things they use in homemade sauces and stuff; 2) I no longer needed to plan out menus for the week — Tim would do that as he shopped, so if he had a Brad for stew and lemon meringue pie, I’d find that out when I put the groceries away; 3) on my last big shopping trip to Shaws, when Hannah was about four or so and sitting in the cart handing items to me for placement on the conveyor pad, I heard her begin the opening lines from, Ding Dong the Witch is Dead — you know — from the Wizard of Oz movie.

I smiled at my daughter — then dropped the smile when I followed her stare and her pointed finger toward the woman standing in line behind us — the woman who looked exactly like Margaret Hamilton aka Almira Gulch aka the Wicked Witch of the West.

Ding. Dong. Dead Ringer!

I have absolutely no recollection as to what happened next — there may have been apologetic words from me — or not — there may have been a few more choruses from my child — or not — there may have been a ball of fire tossed my way or the releasing of a horde of pissed-off flying primates — or not —— and it matters not because that was the last time I did the grocery shopping, thank you very much.

I have absolutely no idea how we got to this particular place in the blog — and I’m not sure what the exact purpose of this blog is, so I’ll scroll to the top for a little light reading and be right back.

Okay. Got it. Back to Tim’s appetite abandonment of his wife — the woman standing — the woman sitting — at death’s door. The woman who had the brilliant idea of having a last Date Night with her husband. The woman whose excitement was ebbing a bit.

“You’re effing kidding me, right?”

Silence.

“You’re not having shrimp?”

“I don’t eat seafood anymore.”

I pushed in, “And you don’t eat sharp cheese and crackers anymore, either. Right?” I said the words in a tone much more appropriate for a wife learning about an act of infidelity, not dietary changes.

“Cheese no. Crackers if they’re vegan.”

“So, our Date Night dinner of shrimp cocktail, sharp cheese and crackers, and green grapes has been reduced to green grapes.”

“And sparkling apple cider.”

“Well, this Date Night sucks, already.”

“I have a plan.”

“Does it involve you eating shrimp?”

“No.”

“Better be a good plan, dude. You do know this is our last Date Night, and so far it kinda sucks.”

“You already said that.”

“Deserves repeating.”

“I know. I’m sorry.

“Me, too,” I said through a spring of tears. (Some of those tears belonged to Date Night disappointment — most of them were because I’d been experiencing breakthrough pain for days and was exhausted by the ordeal. More on that in a future blog).

“I have a plan,” he said while taking a seat across from me.

“Okay.”

“I thought I’d prepare everything for you, and then Hannah and I could have vegan Chinese food from Nancy Chang’s, and Jessie wants a gluten-free pizza, so I’ll just grab all of that and as soon as dinner is done, the girls will head to Hannah’s.”

“Tim, at the risk of sounding bitchy—”

“Too late.”

“—and condescending.”

“Oh, God.”

“I managed to get our toddlers, tweens, or teens out of our hair for Date Night countless times over the years. The one time I let you take the reins, dinner for two is now dinner for four, and I’m eating oxymoronic jumbo shrimp by myself.”

He laughed. “George Carlin was a riot.”

“Don’t George me when I’m pissed.”

“Okay, so dinner isn’t perfect, but by seven they’ll be gone and we’ll be back on track.” He headed to the kitchen to open and close a few doors and drawers, “So, how’s 12 shrimp sound?”

“Perfect. Some for tonight, and some for lunch tomorrow.”

A few minutes later.

“Okay, the shrimp’s on the stove. I put it into a big pot so it won’t boil over and I set the timer for ten minutes. That’s how long it should take for the water to reach a boil. Call Jessie down when the timer goes off and tell her to let it boil for a couple minutes. I have an errand to run.”

“Cocktail sauce?”

Silence.

“Forgot the cocktail sauce, did ya?”

“I’ll be back.”

“Yipeeeeee.”

“Love you, too.”

Before the timer rang, the pot boiled over. I grabbed my phone. “Hey, Jess, the pot on the stove is boiling over.”

“On my way.”

The door opened at the top of the stairs and I heard an exaggerated gag because Jessica hates shrimp — hates everything about shrimp — she certainly hates the smell of shrimpy water boiling onto a back burner. She banged down the stairs. “It smells like low tide down here. Jesus, Mom, this is awful.”

“Shut off the unit. Drain the shrimp. Rinse it under cold water. And go away.”

“As soon as humanly possible.”

“My thoughts, exactly.” She did the straining and draining without further commentary, then skimmed her hand along my arm as she passed by. It’s become her non-verbal expression of love.

“Love you, too.” I squeezed her fingertips before she moved beyond my touch.

As soon as Tim opened the front door he grunted, “What happened?”

“Shrimp boiled over.”

“How?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think it had something to do with water being brought to a boil.”

“I didn’t put that much water into the pot.”

“Uh huh. And heads up, Jessie’s upstairs gagging.”

He laughed. “She hates the smell of shrimp.”

“She said it smells like low tide in here.”

He laughed, really laughed, “She’s not wrong.”

The Bickersons were laughing — a glimmer of hope was on the horizon that Date Night might be saved.

Rules and Regulations

Tim and the interlopers were having dinner at the kitchen table while I was perched upon my leather prison with a beautifully laid out tray of Date Night nibbles. In between bites, I called out to the Traitorous One, “As soon as Hannah and Jessica leave, the cell phones get turned off. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“There’s no calling, texting, or emailing by phone. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“So, if there’s anything you need to do for work, you should do it now.”

“I’m good. Oh, by the way, you got a letter from Guru Jessica.”

He handed it to me. I opened it. I read it. I knew instantly — I was going to break the ‘no phones’ rule — as soon as humanly possible. Before I did, I hopped onto YouTube and found a song Guru recommended on the handwritten, multi-page, front and back letter. I pressed play on a song called, Oceans (Where My Feet May Fail) by Hillsong United.

In recent weeks, I learned The Guru is quite an accomplished singer and, according to her letter, she tends to belt out this particular song. I put it on and within seconds the chit-chat in the other room ceased, and their traps were used exclusively for the food they were consuming. Like me, they turned their attention to the music and lyrics of Oceans.

The version I chose on YouTube is a live, outdoor performance from the Sea of Galilee in Israel. Taya Smith is lead singer, and upon first look she reminded me of Sinéad O’Connor, à la shaved head, a killer set of pipes, and passions that run deep and display easily on a beautiful, expressive face — the energies of the two singers, however, are vastly different.

Okay, what the eff is the point of all of this — oh, right, Guru sent a letter. I wanted — nope, I needed to fire off a text — just a quick one because she took the time to write a playlist for me. We’d discussed sharing our lists during a recent text chain, and she laughed her ass off when she learned I intended to type my list instead of jumping onto ANY millennial-developed device to create a playlist and whoosh it to her via text or email.

As soon as the front door shut behind Hannah and Jessica, I sent Mr. Wonderful to the basement on a bogus errand, grabbed my phone, powered it up, and fired off a text.

Me: Check email. Shhhhh phones are a no no tonight.

I grabbed my laptop and banged out an email. 

Subject: Date Night Interruptus.

I love you. I love the song. Oceans are my thing. Oceans is now going on both of my funeral playlists.  I hope you enjoy them. Gotta get back to my date. I sent him on a bogus errand in the cellar.

To the email, I attached two Spotify playlists Hannah made me. One will be used at my funeral home gathering and one is for the party afterwards.

Bottom-lining this. The computer-savvy-tech-genius sent me a paper and pen playlist because I’m a dolt at computers — then I one upped her by sending an email link to the soundtrack of my life courtesy of my computer-savvy-tech-able daughter. BTW, as soon as the ‘no phones’ rule expired, I’ve been getting texts with Guru’s commentary on how many songs are on both of our playlists — and though she is thirty years my junior, there are many, many duplicates. 

Okay, back to the blog. Tim arrived upstairs from the bogus errand sans the book I asked him to find.

“I think we donated that book to the library.”

“I think you’re right. Oh, well.”

Poor Tim.

On his way into the living room, he locked the front door, then headed to the Bose system to put on one of two CDs Phil McTigue sent me.

As you know, Mr. McTigue has been reading my blogs, and maybe a Pulling Threads book or two because the first CD he made me had songs from both of those writings.

Anyway, since receiving his first CD, I’ve mentioned several other songs in my blogs — I’m doing this from memory so there’ll be omissions, but I made reference to Dream a Little Dream of Me, Blue Velvet, Que Será, Será, and my favorite Dean Martin song, Innamorata. I was sort of primed for one of them to be the opening song of my newest gift from Phil McTigue —— who I now refer to as Wile E. Coyote — I haven’t a clue why, but whenever I think of Phil McTigue — up pops Wile E. Coyote. 

So. There. — Beep! Beep!

BTW, none of the aforementioned songs started our evening.

This. Did.

A recording of a 7th inning stretch stadium singing of Take Me Out to the Ballgame. That is what came blaring through my Bose speaker system! It brought Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful to a fit of laughter. And kept us laughing through the whole damned song.

What Fun!!!!! 

Tim and I spent nearly an hour chit-chatting with ‘McTigue’s Musical Madness’ in the background.

And. Then. We. Got. Down. To. Business.

 

Serious Business!!!!!

Part Two: Coming soon.