Date Afternoon!

Lynnette and I have finally hit the point in our marriage where even a thing like “Date Night” has been eschewed in favor of something more practical. Date Afternoon is the logical response to the loss of Date Night. Every Tuesday (unless I’m stuck at work), my gorgeous wife and I drop Madison off at her dance practice, then drive off to some store where we find things we want to buy, then take turns talking each other down from actually purchasing them. This is real life. Yesterday’s Date Afternoon found us at Costco, a Date Afternoon favorite because of its close proximity to Mad’s dance studio. Here are some of the things we found and ultimately decided against bringing home.

Yeah, let's not rush the whole twins thing if we don't have to.

Yeah, let’s not rush the whole twins thing if we don’t have to.

Lynnette was drawn to this foot massager like a moth to a flame or a pregnant woman to some kind of exotic and/or random dessert. We both ooohed and aaahhhed at the daydream of having this device set in our living room, right in front of the couch, centered before the television. “But don’t foot massages increase the chances of pre-term labor?” I asked. “Yeah, yeah,” Lynnette said. We both backed away from the foot massager that could double as an alien mask for Halloween. “But can you give me a massage tonight?” Lynnette asked. “My shoulders are killing me.” Inception is real.

You have no idea how badly I need this in my life.

You have no idea how badly I need this in my life.

When I found this hanging and drying station standing alone in an aisle, my heart fluttered. There are two kinds of houses in the world. The houses – like my mother’s – which are kept in a pristine state as if guests are going to arrive at any minute. The other kind of house (mine) looks like a refugee camp because basically it is. My wet dress pants straight outta the washer drape over the dining room chairs. My damp dress shirts occupy two (!) tension rods in the second bathroom. But we can’t get this majestic hanging drying station because we’ve already run out of floor space in our home. Right now, we’ve got a ton of stuff laying around Apollo and Artemis’ room. I have no idea how we’re going to make space once they escape Lynnette’s body. Alas.



Lynnette knew before I even got my phone out of my pocket. “I’m not going to stand on that. I’m going to fall,” she said. “You’re not going to fall!” I said. “C’mon! FDB!” I said. Editor’s Note: FDB is an abbreviation which stands for “Fo’ da blog.” If Phil pulls his phone out to take a picture of a seemingly random thing, Lynnette will often question him. “FDB,” he’ll say. Also, if Phil wants to get Lynnette to take a picture that could maybe perhaps be less than flattering, he will also implore her by saying “FDB!” I asked Phil if he saw any problem with using this logic when he has (on more than one occasion) decried the use of “Fo’ da boiz.” He said “I don’t even know why I pay you, you always ruin sh*t.” Well, we pulled off the old compromise and Lynnette plopped herself down on this dolly. “I’ll push you around on the orange flatbed,” I said before we entered the store. “Nah, that would be so embarrassing,” Lynnette said. But also pretty awesome, especially if she just eats out of the sample cups the entire time like a much more aesthetically-pleasing Jabba the Hutt.

I couldn't even.

I couldn’t even.

I have often said that if I ever somehow acquired a huge sum of money, one of my first purchases would be the hiring of a live-in masseuse. As soon as I saw this bad boy I had visions of just that – and then I realized that without someone to apply pressure to my achy body, it would end up simply as a place to hang my damp clothing. I tried in this spot to throw on a pose and facial expression that I hoped would exude sexiness, but I couldn’t hold it for the time required for Lynnette to snap a picture. If laughing at your own jokes is a disease, then well, no medication can cure me.

No idea how she passed on this.

No idea how she passed on this.

Finally, I guess Lynnette’s interest in literary erotica has waned. She did not show any interest in picking up EL James’ novel Grey, which near as I can tell has ripped off both the pilot and the finale of Lost. How dare he/she. I suggested that Lynnette maybe sort of pick this up for reading when she’s inevitably put on bed rest. In the past, the level of Lynnette’s attraction toward and interest in me has increased in conjunction with her reading of such classics as the Twilight series and the original 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. I won’t speculate on why this phenomena occurs, but I will confess that um, I kind of like it. And what’s not to like? She picks up a book, leaves me alone for an hour or more so I can watch Mets highlights, play word games, chase shiny Pokemon, then re-watch those same Mets highlights. Then, magically, at some point she comes to the conclusion that it would be worth her while to put her book down and pick me up. But again, she didn’t buy this book. Alack.


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