I'm well aware of the benefits that regular date nights can have on a relationship and, in theory, I support them wholeheartedly.
I also think a daily shot of wheat grass and regular colon cleanses are a great idea too.
They're also all pricey pains in the asses.
Since my husband lives in a uniform, and well so do I, except one that is not as sexy nor generally presentable in any sort of public forum, we usually end up scrambling to find something to wear.
This weekend, that meant hauling the family to the mall on a Saturday afternoon so my husband could scour the sales racks and gawk at the price of clothes - "It's Bloomingdales, dear!" - until he found four shirts and a extremely versatile pair of linen pants (WTF?) and I could make the mistake of trying regular clothes on at Banana Republic where the mirrors make you look like the size of jungle animals.
Coincidence? I think not.
So then it was racing home to meet the babysitter and orient her to our screwy nighttime routine, which only makes us sound like anal-retentive nut balls.
"Just make sure her pillow is on the left side of the bed and not the right side and the rain machine won't stay on so make sure to put the piggy bank on top of it so that it keeps the button down and you have to leave the bathroom light on but not the hall light..."
You get the idea.
Then it's showering, tossing on clothes that you hope don't have pregnant belly stains or kid snot, and putting on five-minutes worth of make-up so that you don't look like you could actually just get into bed right now and forgo the entire evening.
And then it's waiting for your husband who decided TO WASH THE CAR IN THE 15 MINUTES THAT YOU HAD BEFORE YOU NEEDED TO LEAVE to shower again.
And hiding outside in the 400 degree heat so your kid doesn't scream when you walk about the door.
And running in and out of the house four times after that to get your phone and to tell the sitter that "eh I'm not going to take the phone so call my husband" and then "okay, I think it's better that I take my phone" and "oh shit my phone isn't charged so I'll just leave it here."
And then sticking your head and arm pits into the car air conditioner so your extremely complicated make-up routine and four-second shower do not go to complete waste.
Of course, you're now late for your reservation, BUT AT LEAST YOUR CAR IS WASHED, and completely famished because you don't eat dinner at 8:30pm anymore, and you're about to tackle the bread man who accidentally crosses your path while you're waiting for your table.
But the fabulous meal, the $3.25 Cranberry and Club Soda (also known as "robbery of a poor, sober pregnant woman"), the quiet conversation, and the arguments in the car all the way home are all worth it.
And by worth I mean the $200 we shelled out for three hours alone.
Date night. One pricey bastard I tell you.
And completely worth every penny.