Off Night

The other day I touted JAO's wonderfulness as a husband and father. And while I still believe that to be true, I thought it only fair and balanced to include a story about a time when he was not so wonderful. Heh, heh. Actually, I'll let you judge for yourself who was at fault here. And I strongly encourage you to agree with me. After all, JAO isn't the one filling your days with clever stories and witty observations.

Anyway, as you all know, in the very beginning of a relationship there is the "honeymoon" phase where everything is all rose-colored glasses and The Voice. All personality traits are cute and any imperfection is deemed adorable. You can't get enough of each other, your body is one big tingly, excited mess and your world is giddy and fun.

And then the honeymoon ends. The glasses come off. The traits are annoying and the imperfections are downright inciting. And The Voice is replaced by, well, it is still called The Voice, only this Voice is laden with sarcasm and a touch of spite.

Some will argue that this euphoric honeymoon feeling cannot be sustained -- and isn't meant to be sustained -- and that it is then replaced by a deeper, more meaningful feeling. A feeling that signals a life of dedication, devotion and mutual respect and love.

Whatever.

I don't believe there is a person out there who is now in a long-term, stable relationship that doesn't, at least partly, miss the pleasant euphoria that is the honeymoon phase.

So, I thought I would share the first time I caught a glimpse of the end of my honeymoon phase with JAO. The rose-colored glasses started to slip off my nose a bit -- and then it was all downhill from there. (And when I say "downhill" of course I mean our descent into a comfortable, loving, stable, deeply-emotionally-bonded relationship built on mutual respect and love.)

Whatever.

You know I love you, Boo. I wouldn't trade our life for anything. But, again...badder is funnier. :-)



Off Night
November 11, 2001

Last night, The Boyfriend and I had an "off" night. We just weren't in sync with each other. Have you ever experienced one of those nights? Oh, what fun. Nothing you say or do seems to help.

I suppose I may have started it. I was feeling a bit "off" myself and I allowed that mood to take me over. Though, I'm not completely convinced that he was merely reacting to my mood or if he was in his own funk and, therefore, forcing me to react to him. You decide.

This is how it went...

When I got there, he was folding his laundry. I sat on the bed and watched. I was trying to come down off of the high "Buffy, the Musical" had put me on. I think that somewhere on my way down, I made a wrong turn.

He was matching his socks and rolling them up in a ball. I was only trying to help when I said, "You really shouldn't roll your socks up that way."

"Why?"

"Because it stretches them out at the top. You should just put them together and fold them over." Very Martha Stewart of me, don't you think?

"Thanks for the tip." He looks me in the eye -- and continues to roll his socks up in a ball.

There is some silence and then he says, by way of striking up a conversation I guess, "So. What's up?"

"Oh, not much. How about you?"

"Well, I'm just trying to get all this stuff done before you got over here."

Inwardly, I say, "Well, you didn't succeed, since I am obviously already here and you have obviously not finished with your chores."

Outwardly, I say, "Hmmmm."

More silence as he finishes the folding of his laundry. Then it's on to dusting.

As he's dusting the top of the wardrobe, and the white cloth he's using is turning black, I'm thinking, "Darn, how long has it been since you've dusted the top of that thing?" But I say nothing. Until...

"Do me a favor?" I ask, full of innocence.

"What?" (Is it my imagination or was that a defensive 'what?')

"Open that third drawer and dust underneath it."

"What?" (Okay, that one was downright incredulous.)

"The third drawer. Open it up and dust the strip of wood underneath it. You dusted the top rim of the drawers but you neglected the strip of wood underneath." (Am I wrong in saying this?)

So, with a sigh, he does so.

"Um, and the door."

"What about the door?"

"Open it up and dust the inside of the cupboard area."

I don't even get a response to this one. But he does it. So I won, right? I mean, how can I be expected to sleep in a room that I know is not properly dusted? But I tactfully decline to ask him this.

I decide, instead, to change the subject. Get back to something light. I know! We can talk about our upcoming New York trip! That's guaranteed to lift our spirits! Last week, when Delta had its mad marked-down ticket prices sale, we booked a flight to New York for $74.26 for each round-trip ticket. Since then, I have been unable to think of anything else.

The Boyfriend has never been, so one night last week I pulled out all my maps of the city and spread them out on the floor for his first New York lesson. I explained all I knew about the layout of the city, the position of the neighborhoods, the location of all the favorite tourist sites. But I sensed that he wasn't as into the lesson as I was. He kept watching the television -- and reruns of "Friends," while entertaining for sure, shouldn't win the attention of someone who's supposed to be learning about the greatest city in the world, should it?

See, I didn't think so either!

Anyway, I poured over our hotel choices with the obsession and care of someone picking out her child's name. I was so proud when I found the most beautiful hotel right at 52nd and 6th for the low, low price of $129 a night. Unfortunately, as someone who was born and raised in the significantly less expensive town of Stone Mountain, Georgia, The Boyfriend was shocked at our $608 hotel bill. As I was justifying that reservation (as well as the $145 price tag that came with our Broadway show tickets) it dawned on me that this poor boy didn't quite realize what he was getting into when I called and said, "Hey, you wanna go to New York?"

That notwithstanding, I was still determined that he was going to love this city as much as I did and assumed that he was equally excited to the point of insomnia over the idea of our trip.

All bubbly and cute, I ask, "Did you get a chance to go on-line and look at the hotel I booked for us?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, that's okay. I brought pictures!"

"Pictures of what?"

"Of the hotel -- so you can see what it looks like. Wait until your see our room! It's really beautiful. You're gonna love it!"

"Okay."

Hmmm...I try another tactic: "You know, Jen and Mike are going to Philly right after Christmas. I was like, 'Philly? Why would you choose Philly?' But she said that neither of them has been there before and Michael is a big Eagles fan -- whatever that means. She said something about wanting to drive into Atlantic City while they were there and I was like, 'Jen! If you're going to drive somewhere, got to New York! You're almost as close to the city at that point.'" (I mean, why wouldn't someone want to go to New York if given the chance? No offense, Jen, but come on!)

Again, am I wrong here?

Apparently, I am.

With a sense of cruelty that I never knew he was capable of, The Boyfriend said, "You know, not everyone is as infatuated with New York City as you are."

Boom! Silence.

Inwardly, and with great consternation: "Excuse me?!....What?!"

Outwardly, and very calmly: "I told you before, if you don't want to go, I'll change your airline ticket to someone else's name." (Half joking/half I'm serious if you aren't going to be excited about this then I don't even want to share it with you.)

He said (and rather explosively, I thought), "Look. I told you. I want to go. I'm excited about it. Really."

"Okay." (Hmmm....I think I'll suddenly become engrossed in this brochure touting all the best golfing resorts in the Florida panhandle.)

"Are you okay?"

"Of course!" (Big smile. Gee, I had no idea there were so many golf courses in the panhandle of Florida.)

"I really do want to go."

"I know you do." (The resort in Destin seems nice.)

"Fine."

"Fine."

Then he goes about his dusting duties.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Beat. Beat. Now with hurt indignation, my speech designed to explain it all and regain his love and affection while simultaneously filling him with the wonder and joy that is New York:

"I know that my obsession with New York may seem crazy. But I love that place. I have never felt more alive than when I was there. I was born to be in that city. There's no place on earth that I would rather be!" (Oh, my. Did I just quote Ava Gabor in "Green Acres?")

Silence.

Okay, so that speech didn't go exactly as I had planned. Guess it's back to the brochure.

When he stands on the bed to dust the fan blades, which are directly above my head, I stand up to leave the room. I don't want the dust to fall on my head, now do I?

"Where are you going?" he demands. (Okay, he just kinda asks, but I heard "demands.")

Inwardly: "I'm leaving and I'm never coming back, you New York-hating, sock-ruining, poorly-dusting, insensitive man!"

Outwardly: "To the bathroom."

"Oh. Okay."

Geez. Is it just me, or was he being sensitive or what?