A King’s Ransom for a Room of My Own

A cave. A lair. A den, study or library.

Whatever you call it, the idea is simple: a haven. A location where you can drop your guard, let off a little steam. A spot to grow a beard, burp or--a la Tim Allen--just grunt.

Four walls and a door through which a man--usually married--can be a man.

I recently became a Thousand Oaks resident. After I spent two years splitting my time between a rented room just off the River Ridge Country Club in Oxnard and a condo near Culver City, my wife and I decided to become part of Ventura County’s landed gentry.

This was a big decision for me and Queen (my wife’s college nickname . . . back then, though, it was preceded by the word “Disco”). She had lived in West Los Angeles for more than 14 years, and here I was asking her to uproot and follow me to God’s country.

We settled on Thousand Oaks. Then the trick was to find a house we both liked.

I looked at prices; she looked at whether it had a breakfast nook and the ideal traffic flow. I sought a cozy bungalow that would be easy to maintain; she looked for an estate where she could rule well into the millennium. So, we compromised.

I gave in.

Every husband knows as well as the best Star Trek fan: Resistance is futile.

We settled on a two-story home with a lawn the size of Somis. With a new house, I got a bit excited about getting a few new pieces of furniture. Nothing elaborate, mind you. Just a big screen TV and a La-Z-Boy. You get the idea.

My boss’ husband has this great chair in front of his 45-inch set that looks big enough to envelop a linebacker. It even vibrates. I just wanted something that reclined.

The Queen had other plans.

“There’ll be no chair in my house that I can’t sit in,” she said. That I wanted a chair too small for us to snuggle in was too unromantic for serious consideration.

Again, we compromised. She helped me select a double recliner.

There is no big screen yet, but we are shopping. The cable is all hooked up and I have my eye on a surround-sound stereo system.

But all that is in the family room--a location for everyone to enjoy. I still wanted a place to call my own.

I figured the one advantage of having a large home, with an even larger mortgage, is that we would have enough room for me to finally have my “cave.”

I had one about 10 years ago, but that was another house in another state. Besides, it was mostly a room above the garage where I stacked old newspapers and bills.

No, this would be a real lair. The one spot in the house that I could decorate without consultation. A place where I could be king of the, albeit modest, castle.

I imagined a bookcase lined with my collection of novels by Ian Fleming, John McDonald and Walter Mosely. A television and VCR. Maybe a stereo. My portable fridge. A “home-away-from-home-in-the-home,” as it were.

A spot to chew potato chips without worrying whether I’m crunching too loud. Where I can grab a snack without being reminded I have the table manners of a ravenous wolf. Where I can throw a magazine on the floor and not get a dirty look.

A place to invite a buddy to watch the NBA All-Star game. A corner to hang a calendar of exotic race cars, or maybe a dart board. A real guy’s place. I figured this wouldn’t be too much to ask.

I was wrong.

How could I possibly want to be alone, the Queen wanted to know. What possible reason did I have to hide from my family? Our time together is too precious for the man of the house to sneak off to a bunker.

What was I possibly thinking?

Being the open-minded person she is, the Queen conducted an informal survey of the boyfriends and husbands of her female friends and co-workers. What was this thing about men wanting a room of their own? Was this some lunacy invented by her husband?

To a man, everyone who replied said they wanted just such a place. Some called it a den. Others dubbed it the TV room. Not everyone had one, mind you, but they all wanted one.

With such overwhelming results she had to be convinced, right?

Not quite.

If a man needs such a room, what about her room? Didn’t the Queen deserve her own space?

I argued that she had a free hand to decorate every other place in the house. I just wanted one small room. As expected, she didn’t buy it.

Actually, the idea of having a piece of private turf isn’t new and it’s not particularly masculine. Nearly 70 years ago, author Virginia Woolf wrote “A Room of One’s Own.” For women to have any success in writing fiction--and in greater measure, to achieve power and influence of any kind--Woolf wrote they must first acquire the two keys to freedom: fixed incomes and rooms of their own.

I have a paycheck. Now I just need a room.

So, what is the status of my cave? It is, optimistically speaking, a work in progress.

The Queen went from a firm “No way!” to a qualified “Maybe” and then to the current solution--a combination cave and office.

So, I will have to share my private space with the filing cabinet, the utility bills and the family computer.

But I have a couch in there and soon I will be getting a television and entertainment center with room for a stereo, VCR and books. Can the fridge and dart board be far behind?