Dating at the Prime of Life
by Lela Davidson on January 15, 2010
in Marriage, Random Amusements
For all its pain and suffering, marriage does have one distinct advantage: we don’t have to date. From all I hear it seems really, really, painfully difficult. And it’s not just that I’ve been married so long that I have forgotten what it was like. I never actually dated. I was one of those dreadful girls who just went from one boyfriend to another to my husband with precious few periods of ‘dating’ in between.
I’m not sure I could handle the scene at this age, which–if my friends are to be believed–includes the following:
- men who have grandchildren, yet still live with their mothers
- women who run credit reports before the first date
- limited small town prospects that make dating after divorce feel like getting tossed into a bag of ‘Shake ‘N Bake until someone sticks
- too-high bikini area maintenance standards
- modern communication: did he really get my text?
- so much corporate travel you have to MapQuest your own address when you finally get home
- the new math required to determine how many dates until…
- exes and custody schedules
But go on, y’all – date. I enjoy living vicariously through you. I live to give you my bullshit all-knowing advice without having to personally suffer the emotional upheaval it causes. Who knows? You may end up married like me. Then I’ll be very helpful.
Will My Husband Survive the Teen Years?
by Lela Davidson on November 13, 2009
in Marriage, Rugrats, Tweens, & Other Offspring
We’re sitting around the dinner table the other night when the phone rings. Three of us at the table know who it is. It’s the cute girl my 11-year-old son is ‘going out with’, the one I describe as a ‘fellow 4.0 student’ and my son describes and ‘nice’ and ‘accurate’, the one who has very good posture.
The only person in our family who doesn’t immediately know who is on the phone is my husband, John. In his best 1950s Father voice he asks, “Who could be calling so late?”
It is 6:30.
I answer the phone and tell the sweet girl that my boy will call her back. Then I tell John he may have a very difficult decade ahead.
Would You Sell Your Sex Life for $20?
by Lela Davidson on August 6, 2009
in Marriage, Random Amusements
The following classified recently ran in my local paper:
Needed for research
University of Arkansas – Psych. Dep. seeks romantic couples to participate in interviews on relationship and sexual satisfaction. Couples will get $20 gift cards.
Whoa, now. Twenty bucks? How romantic do you suppose a couple would have to be to consider this a date night activity? And where do you think the gift card is redeemable? Harp’s? One can only hope it’s a pre-paid Visa.
I wonder if the couples will have make up sex after the fight over how to spend the $20.
Sounds like a follow up interview.
Dating Advice For Old Married People
by Lela Davidson on March 9, 2009
in Uncategorized
If you’re in NWA, you can read my pearly wisdom every month in the Chasing Date Night column in Peekaboo. (In addition to After the Bubbly, of course.) And if you’re far away, or if you missed a few, or you just don’t leave the house long enough to traipse into your local Starbucks, here’s a sample:
Top 5 Ways to Date Yourself – And before you even comment, let me remind you this is a family publication.
Taking the Scary Out of Halloween Date Night – Out of season, but one of my favorites anyway.
Top 10 Stupid Date Night Ideas
Cyrano de Cheese Sauce
by Lela Davidson on June 6, 2008
in Uncategorized
To help the American Egg Board identify America’s Worst Cook, Parent Bloggers Network is hosting a theme today about cooking disasters. Try as I might I just can’t think of a single bad experience. I’m that good. To clarify: I’m that good at blocking out embarrassing memories. So how about ridiculous instead?
When I was in high school I had a thing for brocoli with cheese sauce. For whatever reason. My best friend’s older sister happened to be the absolute master of cheese sauce. Lucky for me. I also had a thing for this really cute guy, and a penchant for playing house. One evening when my mom was out of town I invited him over for dinner. The thing was I didn’t know how to cook, so my friend’s older sister came over about an hour before my date. She baked a chicken, and whipped up a batch of her creamy cheese concoction. She even steamed the brocoli. Lucky for me. I made a box of stuffing to round out the meal.
I knew the guy wasn’t a keeper when he looked up at me and asked:
“Is this Stove Top?”
This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a contest sponsored by the American Egg Board.
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.
