For Christmas last year, my husband got me what I really wanted. Not a diamond necklace or a trip to the spa, not a romantic gondola ride through Newport Harbor or dinner for two at a swanky restaurant. But something I could really use: a TV for our bedroom. I know this sounds slightly pathetic, but I was absolutely thrilled about this gift. Because usually, I sit on the couch watching the television until I feel tired enough for sleep. (A good sign that I’ve reached this point is when my eyes roll back into my head and I jerk awake with drool running down my chin.) But then, I have to drag my butt off the couch, do my going to bed things, check the kids, and by the time I hit the hay, I’m wide awake again. With my Christmas present, I could do all my going to bed stuff, check the kids, then climb into bed and watch TV, and when the drool started I could just switch the TV off with the remote and dive right into slumber. Hallelujah.
I feel, at this point, I need to backtrack a bit before I move on to the point of this post.
When we first got married, those many many many years ago, my husband had one of those rules that seemed ridiculous, like the one he made while I was pregnant with our first child about how the baby was NEVER going to sleep in the bed with us. (Yeah, that lasted all of about twenty seconds–he wasn’t the one with the boobs.) But this particular rule revolved around having a television in the bedroom. We were NOT going to have one in ours. Because we shouldn’t be watching TV, he’d said, when there were other more important things to do. Wink wink, nudge nudge. I agreed at the time, partly to placate him (wives learn early on to choose their battles) and partly because we were having sex quite regularly.
Okay, so. Now, fast forward fourteen years. We still have sex…you know, when we’re both in the bed at the same time…oh, and also AWAKE at the same time. It does happen. More often than the solar eclipse. But I guess my husband finally came to the realization that while I may like sex more than Bones (at least that’s what I let him believe), since we aren’t doing it as much—for no other reasons than scheduling and fatigue, mind you—it was okay for me to have the TV in the damn bedroom.
I love my TV. I don’t watch it every night, but often enough. More often than I’m having sex. Would you like to know what I watch on that TV at night? Sex. No. Not PORN. But nice, fun, TV sex. You know, like between David Boreanz and Emily Deschanel, or Juliana Marguiles and Josh Charles, or any one of those British dudes and dudettes in Downton Abbey. Or sometimes I catch a movie on HBO or Starz, and those are fun because they get a little bit more hot and heavy than network television. (I do draw the line at the Cinemax soft core porn stuff. I mean, occasionally I linger on that station for a few seconds, not because I’m interested in the faux sex, but simply because I am totally transfixed by the size of the woman’s gazongas.)
So, last week, I was channel surfing, and I came across Blue Steel. Now this is a very B-movie kind of flick. But I happen to really like it. You know why? Because there is a great love scene toward the end of the movie between Jaimie Lee Curtis and Clancy Brown, this big strapping hunk of a guy that was never heard from again except for a guest starring role on ER playing opposite a character that later turned out to be a lesbian. Anyway, as I was saying, there’s this great love scene at the end, and by the looks of it, it’s about thirty-five minutes away. Now, I’m tired, but since TV sex is the only thing that gets me through those long lonely stretches of time between eclipses (full moons might be more appropriate—get it?), I figure I can stay awake long enough to catch the scene. (And anyway, right after the sex scene, something awful happens in the movie, so I don’t mind turning it off right then.)
So, I’m waiting and waiting and watching and watching, counting the moments until the scene finally comes where Jaimie and Clancy will do the hot sweaty nasty and it’s getting closer, it’s almost here, they’re in the apartment, he’s reaching for her, they’re starting to kiss, now they’re really getting passionate and the clothes are coming off and…and…and…
“Mommy? Can I come in?” my daughter calls softly to me from right outside my bedroom door.
Seriously? Right at this moment? Is somebody kidding?
It used to be that I worried about my kids interrupting me actually having sex. Now I have to worry about them interrupting me watching sex.
Of course, being that I am me and not Cruella deVille, I quickly turned off the television and invited my daughter into my room. But I might have been just a wee bit crabby to her the following day, which she didn’t really understand since I’m usually crabby toward her brother.
So, the moral of the story is: If you don’t have a TV in your bedroom, don’t get one. If you do have a TV in your bedroom, either put a lock on your door, or get used to watching the Disney channel.