Date night: Two words, one elusive moment for parents of six. This idea is something I grasp at with eager, greedy emotion. And it really doesn't have to be much to make my day. My husband and I have enjoyed "dates" at Sam's Club, the library, Starbucks (if we're feelin' fancy), and some favorite times at the free summer concerts in Willoughby.
Two years ago, we decided this concept of spending time alone together was... important. (Um, absolutely necessary if a certain mother of five at the time was to be pulled out of the corner in which she was rocking back and forth.) The first scheduled date was cancelled. Someone had pink eye. The second date (first in occurence) took place at a local restaurant known for ribs (I ordered fish). The seating was close,the napkins smelled musty, and... we had nothing to talk about. It was a disaster! I was in tears (mind you, I'm pretty sure I was pregnant with number six and just didn't know it yet). We had been reduced to other people's conversations. We finished eating quickly, and decided to find a sunset to watch. (We had hired a sitter, and couldn't figure out the right amount to pay for 45 minutes.) We missed the sunset, having been thoroughly turned around in the disorienting Fairport Harbor (think: Bermuda Triangle on Lake Erie), and decided to have ice cream on the beach. It rained.
After that first date, I was more determined than ever to re-introduce myself to my spouse. We both began to look for hidden gems of entertainment and conversation sparks, and took along bits of books and poetry (my contribution) to read to each other when the conversation waned. Interestingly, I think we only read a bit on the second date (my husband having been duly persuaded to keep me talking rather than having to listen to my poetry selections, more than likely). Whatever the cause, our date nights had received a much needed spark, and although there is no definable pattern, they do happen. In fact, one of the best occured this weekend.
I had been poking around on facebook, and there was an ad for Little Italy's Artwalk. I clicked on it, bought all the propaganda, hook-line-and-sinker, and begged my husband to take me there. I'd never been.
True to my tendency of loving all things eclectic, I am completely enamored with the place. Frank Sinatra set the tone as soon as we parked on one of the slanty sloping streets, his crooning wooing pedestrians through loudspeakers, although the elderly couple sitting on their porch (he in dark socks and snappy suspenders, she in a faded-soft housedress) looked a little tired of the hullabaloo. A warm breeze swished my skirt, and I took my husband's hand.
The breeze also carried scents so fragrant I literally wanted to swallow it down. Restaurant after restaurant lined the street. White tableclothes showcased linguini with mussels, bread and oil, sparkling red wine and votives... Conversation hummed and Venetian masks winked mysterious charm, hung in windows and propped on displays. We walked through a sidewalk massage station, complete with tattooed mannequins boasting wigs that were up for raffle. The saucy smell of Mama Santo's grabbed us by the nose, seemed to say, "You have arrived. Eat. Now."
Here the tables boasted no white coverings, and the paneled walls sported a few faded pics of Italy lit by red-white-and-green light sconces. Our waitress spoke in a thick Sicilian accent, encouraging me that the manicotti, all from scratch, were wonderful. We each ordered an entree. And a large pepperoni pizza to share. Later, as we were thick into our meals, she came back to survey us on our choices. "Umm. Uhm-mm," was all I could say, my eyes kind-of rolled back. (Think: subtle version of Meg Ryan re-enactment.) Manners had nothing to do with not opening my mouth. I couldn't have borne letting a flavor escape.
Later, we strolled the galleries, absorbing gorgeous paintings, jewelry, papers... We even took in a pink scooter with leopard seat covers, although the owners weren't giving rides--not that Jason would've accepted, mind you. I fingered a delicate ivory scarf, itched to buy it, but decided to ask for another visit, this one with an intentional shopping twist, on an upcoming birthday.
The humid evening ended with a thunderstorm, which seems to be our m.o. Personally, I think it just may be the way my heart pounds--when my sweet glances my way, catches me off guard with a kiss-- that causes these date night weather disturbances.