An Exciting Night Out Without The Baby


The following is a guest post from Raquel D’Apice, founder of the humor/parenting blog, The Ugly Volvo

A transcript from the night when we excitedly went out to a restaurant and left the baby with my parents:

Jonathan enters the restaurant grinning and sits down across from me.

Jonathan:  Ready for our hot date?

Me:  I know– look at us going out to dinner like regular adults who don’t have a baby!

Jonathan:  I know!  (Smiles)

We shuffle our silverware for a few seconds and sip from our
water glasses.  I pick up a menu and glance at it, then put it down.

Me:  So… (I flounder for a moment, trying to think of something to say)  Work was good today?

Jonathan:  Yeah, today was good.  Not too busy and everyone was in a pretty good mood.

Me:  Sounds good.

We pause, smiling at each other.  Neither of us says anything for several seconds.

Jonathan:  (Pauses) It’s just so nice to be OUT.

Me:  I know.  It’s so exciting that he’s not here.  I mean I miss him…

Jonathan:  Obviously I miss him.

Me: Obviously.  He was so cute when I left him with
my dad.  He was making the cutest…hold on, I took a picture, let me find
it.  (I scroll through my phone, looking for a photo I took of the
baby).  Here.

Jonathan:  Oh, his face. God, he’s such a cute kid.

Me:  I know.  And this one.  (I begin scrolling
through photos).  And this one when my dad was holding him.  And some of
the guys from his office.  (scrolling)

Jonathan:  Oh, send me that last one?  The one where he’s smiling and holding onto the chair?  I want to make it my phone wallpaper.

Me:  I love that one.  So adorable.  I’ll send it to you.

Waiter enters, glancing at us glancing at our phones.  I am immediately embarrassed.

The Waiter:  Hi, can I start you off with something to drink?

Me: Yes, I’m so sorry!  ( I quickly put away phone) I’ll have a…what is this, is this like a stout? (Waiter nods)  I’ll have that.

Jonathan:  Can I get a Malbec?

 The waiter nods, writes down our orders, and leaves.  We smile and stare at each other politely.

Me:  So.

Jonathan:  So.  (Pauses awkwardly)  This is a really nice place.  Who told you about it again?

Me:  (Sipping from water glass)  I can’t remember.  Isn’t it great?

Jonathan:  (Pausing again) It’s great.

Me: Yeah.  It seems pretty nice.

*          *          *

Jonathan stands at the kitchen counter, eating a container of yogurt.  I am lying on the living room sofa, typing on my laptop.

Me:  Did you get a chance to proofread that transcript I wrote of our date?

Jonathan:  I did.

Me:  Is it ok?  Is there a lot of stuff I should fix?

Jonathan:  I fixed a bunch of grammatical stuff.

I wait for him to continue.  What I would always like for him to
say is, “This is great!  This is so poignant and hilarious and
brilliant.  You’re totally brilliant!”  But a lot of times the things I
have come up with are neither poignant, nor hilarious, nor brilliant,
and Jonathan does not lie to me, which is why I make him proofread
things.  He will say things like, “It was good, sweetie.  It drags on
for a little bit longer than maybe it needs to, but it’s good.  I fixed a
few typos and you misspelled ‘embarrassed’ a lot.”

Me: So is it not great?

Jonathan:  You don’t think it’s a little depressing?  Like we have nothing to talk about besides the baby?

Me: But on that specific date, isn’t that sort of how it went?

Jonathan:  I mean I guess.  It just seemed
sort of pathetic.  Like people will assume our marriage is in trouble.  I
guess maybe try to make it a little less…I don’t want to say boring,
but less repetitive, maybe?

*          *          *

We sit quietly in the restaurant, both of us attired (as always)
in dark black sunglasses and fitted leather trench-coats, our hair
slicked back as we chew the olives from our dry martinis.   An
electronic tablet in Jonathan’s briefcase makes a “ping” sound,
indicating that he’s got a new message.  He removes the tablet from the
briefcase and begins to read.

Jonathan:  (reading) They’ll be here any minute.  Get ready.

Me:  I’m ready.

A group of men enter the restaurant, all of them wearing
sunglasses and smoking cigarettes.  The hostess at the front desk says,
“Excuse me, you can’t smoke that in here” and the largest of the men,
their leader, extinguishes the cigarette in the middle of her forehead.
The hostess screams.  All the people in the restaurant begin
screaming.  A frumpily-dressed manager comes in and says, “What’s going
on here?” and a man with an eye-patch and a long red scar running up his
cheek punches the manager in the face, cracking his glasses and sending
him to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Me: (to the sunglass-wearing thugs)  Leave them alone.  You came for us and we’re both right here.

I take a valiant step toward them.  I have a small pistol in a
secret holster on my thigh but don’t like using it and will probably
defeat these men using karate that I’ve learned from movies.  I pull a
bread dish off the table, throwing it as if it were a ninja star.  It
hits one of the men squarely in the neck, knocking him to the ground.
Before the others can react, Jonathan has taken down another one,
knocking him over the head with a bottle of cold-pressed olive oil in
which, only moments ago, we’d been dipping our Focaccia bread.  The
glass shatters around the hapless thug as the oil covers him and he
tries, desperately, to wipe pieces of oregano out of his eyes.

Head thug:  You thought you could stop us?

Jonathan:  We still think that.

I take down three additional men using umbrellas I pulled from
the coat check while Jonathan hits the head thug in the face with a
pecan pie.  The thug’s face begins to swell, as he obviously has a
severe nut allergy.  Jonathan whips an epi-pen out of nowhere and holds
it inches from the thug’s face.

Jonathan:  Leave town.  You have no business here.

Jonathan injects the thug with the epi-pen, stabbing it into his
heart like they do in the Nicholas Cage movie “The Rock,” even though,
for the record, that is not how you’re supposed to use an epi pen.  We
then jump through a plate glass window unharmed and land on our
respective motorcycles.

*          *          *

Jonathan sits at his computer in sweatpants and an undershirt, reading the updated draft of the restaurant transcript.

Jonathan:  Ok, so it doesn’t have to be all lies.

Me:  But it’s not
depressing.  And we’re not just sitting around and talking about the
baby, which was what you hated about the last one.

Jonathan:  Yes, but there
needs to be a halfway point between us having a boring conversation
about the baby and us jumping through a plate glass window onto

Me:  Ok, I can fix it.  Give me a few minutes.

*          *            *

We sit opposite each other in the
restaurant.  Jonathan’s phone pings with a new message, which is the
photo of the baby I have just sent him.

Jonathan:  (Looking at phone)  God, he’s so cute in this photo.  (Pauses)  I’m so glad he’s not here though.

Me:  I know.

Jonathan:  I miss him though.  It’s hard not seeing him as often as I’d like to.

Me:  That’s the downside of our amazing careers.
There are dozens of men who would kill to play professional soccer for a
living.  Those two goals you scored on Thursday were unbelievable.

Jonathan:  I know.  I don’t want to seem ungrateful.  (Three
young boys suddenly run up to him, all wearing soccer uniforms that
match the one that Jonathan is also wearing.  They ask for autographs
and he politely signs each of the boys’ foreheads.
)   But between my crazy schedule and your insane hours as a figure-skating coach…

Me:  Which are getting more insane because I have a kid this year who hates music and insists on skating to books-on-tape.

Jonathan:  Ugh, how frustrating.  (A golden retriever approaches him, holding a piece of cardboard in its jaws and Jonathan autographs the cardboard.) Which books on tape?  Like a Harry Potter?

Me: She wants to skate her audition piece to that Steve Jobs biography.

Jonathan:  The Walter Issacson one? (I nod.)  That’s going to be rough.

A baby cries somewhere else in the restaurant and both Jonathan and I wistfully bite our lips. 

Me:  It’ll be rough.  But not as rough as missing him, sometimes.

The waiter approaches holding a small pad on which to jot down
our order and Jonathan absentmindedly autographs it.  He immediately
realizes his mistake and apologizes only to have the waiter break into a
wide grin and tell him that no, it’s fine, that those two goals he
scored on Thursday were amazing and that, as a personal thank you, he
(the waiter) would like to give us a plate of fried calamari for free. 

*          *          *

Jonathan stares at the computer screen for what seems like forever.

Jonathan:  Ok, so I liked this draft in theory because I’m a famous soccer player which, obviously, is very exciting.

Me:  But…

Jonathan:  But when I said
it sounded a little boring, I didn’t mean you had to change everything
about it.  I just meant…I don’t know.  Like maybe you can transcribe our
actual conversation but just make it clear that we’re still happy.

Me:  So you want me to take all the soccer stuff out?

Jonathan:  I’m not saying I want you to take it out;  I’m just saying it doesn’t really make sense in this particular piece.

Me:  Ok.  I’m going to take most of it out.  Don’t be mad.

Jonathan:  I won’t be mad.

*          *          *

We sit quietly in the restaurant, smiling at each other.

Jonathan:  So (looks around)…this place is great.  You picked a great place.

Me:  It seems good so far.

We stare at each other, smiling, for several more minutes.  We
are a loving couple.  Really loving.  We really, really love each other,
and yet we do not have anything to say that does not involve photos of
the baby, scheduling things that involve the baby, relief that we’re not
currently taking care of the baby, or telling stories about what
happened recently when we were out with the baby.  We are locked in a
stand-off, not wanting to bring up the baby but desperately wanting to
communicate with one another.   But we love each other a lot and I would
like to make that clear.

Jonathan:  You look great tonight.

Me:  Thanks.  So do you.

Jonathan:  (Pauses for several seconds before
pulling out his smartphone) Sooooo…do you want to watch a bunch of
really cute videos I made yesterday while he was crawling around?

And instead of saying anything, I smile and scoot my chair over
so that we’re sitting side by side instead of across the table from one
another.  And he hits play and we turn the volume down so we don’t annoy
the other people in the restaurant, and we laugh at a video of the baby
trying to grab the dog’s tail, then at one of him pulling books off the
bookshelf.  We watch one of him eating, then one of him playing with
the laces on my rain-boots.  

Me:  He’s a really cute baby.

Jonathan:  He is, isn’t he?  We’re very lucky.

We look back at the smartphone.  Jonathan begins another video in
which the baby is crawling while a loud Spanish soccer game blasts in
the background.    He’s crawling towards the camera as fast as he can,
and I love him but am also so happy he’s not here.  I’m so happy to have
a night to myself–to think, to relax, to enjoy Jonathan’s company, even
when we have nothing to talk about but how exhausted we are.  Life is
sometimes boring but that is ok.  I watch the baby crawling toward us,
and I smile, and in the background the soccer game is still blasting,
and I can hear a man’s voice shouting, “Goooooooaaallll!
Goooooooooooaallll!!  Goooooooooooooooaaallll!!”

*               *               *

The End

*               *                *

Raquel D’Apice is a comedian and writer of the humor/parenting blog The Ugly Volvo, best known for the post, “A Ten Month Old’s Letter to Santa.”  Her writing has been featured in Slate, Huffington Post, Reader’s Digest and BUST Magazine.  She lives in Jersey City, New Jersey with her husband, young son, and lingering feelings of inadequacy. Find The Ugly Volvo on Facebook and follow on Twitter @TheUglyVolvo



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