Your Spouse Is Hotter Than You Think
by Lela Davidson on February 2, 2012
in Marriage
Your spouse is hotter than you think and you used to be really into each other. Those are two of the Top 10 Reasons to Date Your Spouse, one of my favorite fun pieces. I love the way it looks with the conversation hearts this month in Coulee Parenting Connection. Also, it’s on the cover. I like that.
How do you keep the spark of romance alive? Having been married for more than 17 years, this is a challenge I face–like, all the time. I have developed an interactive talk/session/chat for women’s groups or couples based on the ideas in this article. In fact, I’ll be at the First United Methodist Church in Springdale in a couple of weeks. Click here to see my tips, check out my schedule here, and if you like what you see, invite me to talk to your group too! (I love to talk.)
PS – What are your hot date night plans for Valentine’s Day?
Images: CarbonNYC, Flickr, Coulee Parenting Connection
Retiring Romance
by Lela Davidson on April 30, 2010
in After The Bubbly in Print, Marriage
Recently my husband and I sat down with a retirement specialist to discuss our financial future. I may have erroneously referred to this as a lunch “date.” Or maybe it was no accident. I am the consummate multi-tasker. 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 sixty-seven 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.”
Hot Date at Sam’s Club
by Lela Davidson on October 20, 2009
in Marriage
I write a column for a local magazine about how to have romantic date nights with your spouse. I give really good advice like committing to a regular night, shaking things up with novel activities, and taking that extra time to prepare for and flirt with your spouse.
I’m such a fraud.
On a recent Saturday night 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 really, really wanted to do. Before he even had time to ponder the possibilities, I laid it on him: I wanted to go to Sam’s Club.
I needed to scope out the food options for the fortieth birthday party I’m planning for 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.) Let the dating begin!
At the optical counter 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.
This tray of enchaladas wouldn’t let us go. The date would now include a romantic meal complete with free appetizers: pizza, granola bars, sausage. We talked with people we knew–a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker. Turned out Sam’s was the place to be that Saturday night.
We even held hands.
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 enchaladas 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 so he headed over to the recliner. And he let me pick the movie.
Maybe I’m not such a fraud after all.
Date Night Etiquette
by Lela Davidson on August 10, 2009
in Marriage
Have you been slacking off in the date night department? If your idea of romance includes any type of foldable chair and/or canned beverages, the answer is yes. Don’t worry, I’m here to hook you up with a primer on dating etiquette. What would you do without me?
Check out Chasing Date Night Goes Back to School in this month’s Peekaboo – or follow the link!
Date Night Anyone?
by Lela Davidson on April 3, 2008
in Uncategorized
My humor piece, Chasing Date Night sort of started everything for me. I entered it into a contest at a writer’s conference in 2006 and placed 3rd. That gave me wild confidence. Chasing Date Night was the first thing I published online at the old whoisisabella, and the first After the Bubbly column to run in Peekaboo magazine.
It’s gotten so much positive feedback that I’ve been asked to launch a new column all about how to have great date night. Ack! Does anyone out there have some great ideas for date night? I’m begging y’all to tell me things that have and have not worked for you. Also, I’d love to know what stupid date night advice drives you nuts. And, on a more specific note – if you have any suggestions for great lunch date restaurants in NWA, please let me know!
Thanks in advance for all your brilliant comments!
Chasing Date Night
by Lela Davidson on September 28, 2007
in Uncategorized
Photo Credit: Chance Agrella
I planned spontaneity. Working my artificially full lashes, I lured my husband away from familiar platters of cow-and-tater with a wink and a promise. We drove down the highway. Away from PTA, soccer, and ballet. Away from the backyard BBQs of our tidy subdivision. I tasted youth. It tasted a lot like lip-gloss.
On a trendy street in the city, a swanky bistro beckoned. In blue neon, a sultry ‘Jazz’ lit up the window. Even better: convenient parking.
Inside, a glance at the menu confirmed our choice. Steamed, braised, pan-seared, lightly tossed in cream. . . We’d eaten this kind of food before kids; we’d do it again.
As we waited for our table, I admired our reflections behind the bartender. We were hot. The entire restaurant was populated with Beautiful People: print-shirt wearing guys in Buddy Holly spectacles and girls as blonde and groomed as an heiress’s Chihuahua. My abundance of shimmering shadow and black eyeliner elevated me to their league.
The hostess led us past groups of the Beautiful People, sparkling over tiny bowls of pasta, to a small stairway. Ooh, what was this? A lower level? Not only had we found the hippest little spot in town, we were now being shown into its inner sanctum, the special place for the few, the worthy, the dare-I-say ultrachic. John and I exchanged a look — Date Night rocked.
The grotto grooved a different vibe. Retro, with booths, hoola-dancer lamps, and pop-art. Very Bradys-go-to-Vegas.
“Good choice, gorgeous,” my husband said after we ordered. He still had the smooth talk, but as I waited an unreasonable interval for my Chardonnay, I missed the candlelight upstairs and wondered how soon all the eye paint would settle into my not-so-fine lines. I tried to pretend the wine did not taste like yesterday’s green tea. The soup would be better — Cream of Asparagus and Crab could be nothing less than divine.
Still, something was not quite right.
“Do you notice anything about the people down here?” I said.
“No,” he lied. But the patrons around us, though still attractive, sported thicker waists and thinner hair.
“I think this is the Old People section,” I whispered.
“Nah.”
Then the food arrived. As I forced myself through the cold and starchy glop of soup, springs dug into my soft, motherly rear and I felt deceived. By the time I had suffered through my soggy salad, Date Night had evaporated like a mirage. I poked at my mediocre shrimp. Not having spent all that time on eye make-up, my husband was less vexed.
“This place might not last long,” he said in his annoying diplomatic manner.
“It’s crap,” I said. The whole place had started to look like a yard sale that got plowed over by a wood paneled station wagon. This basement sucked.
Just then, a Cowboy and his Girl moseyed into the booth behind us. Neither Old nor Beautiful, and worlds away from cool, the Cowboy made it perfectly clear. We all had been banished. Not
to be seen by the real clientele. Hidden away like a cousin with Herpes at the church picnic.
And me with my best mascara.
Though tempted, I knew even the most articulate complaints would not earn me a place upstairs. But such a severe humiliation required resolution. A near-lethal dose of chocolate would do.
We made it to the steakhouse half an hour before closing. A friendly waitress promptly served us a fudgy cake-frosting-sauce concoction, which delivered more than it promised. As our cheeks blushed under the light of a Budweiser sign, we found a comfort and satisfaction that had eluded us all evening.
So maybe next time we ought to start at the steakhouse? No way. After all, dating’s all about the chase.
