Degrees of TV separation
I might as well come right out and say it because I have to accept it; Newman and I are separating. Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds; we do have periods of reconciliation, every day in fact, and I’m not sure he’s even noticed that we’re separating, but make no mistake about it, we are.
It all started when we moved to the house on Morison Place. I thought it was lovely that we’d have one of those cozy main floor rooms called a den, or a study, or a library, whatever. I could have had one in the house on Sudbury Street, but it became a spare bedroom so I never did have to decide whether to call it the den or the study.
This room has hardwood floors, French doors, lovely mouldings and plenty of room for a desk, cabinets, bookshelves, a couple of chairs and a TV, with lots of natural light pouring in from a beautiful window that take up the whole front of the room.
In my vision for this room it was right out of a period English movie; a wall of books, two comfy chintz chairs, maybe a butler’s tray between them, a warm Oriental rug that would look old and faded but I could get new, if Kijiji let me down.
Our computer desk and credenza have a traditional style and wouldn’t be too obtrusive and, in front of the chairs, a small TV would be centered on a sideboard, flanked with maybe a set of old leatherbound books and perhaps some black and white family photos in silver frames. I would have the chair by the window where I would enjoy my morning coffee and watch the birds just three
feet away.
As with most of my dreams where money is no object, I knew the reality would take a while to evolve, but at least I had a clear vision. I didn’t really discuss it with Newman because he’s never shown the remotest interest in such things.
I spent hours deciding on what colour to paint it, finally settling on Frozen Pond. Now that I think of it, Frozen Pond may have been a sign, a bit prophetic even.
Because Newman is becoming frozen in the pond.
I knew there was going to be trouble when I saw his sons lugging in a big screen TV on his birthday. The creation of my vision for that room wasn’t very far along, and suddenly I realized that Newman had his own vision. In fairness, every now and then he had mentioned something about wanting a room of his own, but as we shared the computer, I didn’t see that happening. The birthday box wasn’t even unpacked when I was threatening to sue Stepsons for alienation of affection. Jokingly. Haha.
Since they changed the city dump and made going there no longer fun, watching TV together has been a big part of the romantic glue that holds us together. We don’t always like the same things, but that never seemed to be a problem. In the old house, with only one big TV, a scroll through Netflix would find something we both liked. I knew about the dark side of Newman, but he could indulge it when I wasn’t around. I didn’t expect him to watch “Coronation Street” and he didn’t expect me to watch “Walking Dead.”
My dream room is now a man cave. I have my own computer elsewhere and he has no shame whatsoever. As if CNN wasn’t enough, he just brazenly invited Crave into his cave for the new season of “Star Trek” and I have not seen him since.
Ok, I’m exaggerating. I am welcome in there and we have joint custody of the bedroom, the upstairs bathroom and the kitchen and we are dating again. We make plans to watch shows together and we do it in the cave if I need to recline and in the living room if I want a fire.
It could be worse.
My dream room is now a man cave. I have my own computer elsewhere and he has no shame whatsoever. As if CNN wasn’t enough, he just brazenly invited Crave into his cave for the new season of “Star Trek” and I have not seen him since.