I am going away this weekend. Alone. Just me. No one else. The baby will be home with dad and I will be gone. Words cannot express the rarity of the event of which I write. I almost don’t even know what to say about it. I have a plan to prepare a lovely sit down dinner for myself, listen to some music, watch a few dvds. Sleep, write, drink good strong coffee, daydream, maybe take a walk. Hell, I was thinking about rubbing one out too, but this weekend is about me, and if doesn’t happen I can’t get all frustrated. And have you ever tried faking it with yourself? I tried once, but that bitch is too clever. She knew.
Last night I shopped for my weekend and my husband noticed the differences between his weekends away and mine. He gave me the business for spending bucks on groceries and movies, and all he does is go out there (there being a camper we have) with a case of beer. He hits Subway if the urge to eat strikes.
First off, the biggest difference is that he gets weekends away often. I get them never. So let’s just call it apples and oranges right there to start. Secondly, this is a chance to make something that isn’t out of a box, doesn’t contain some sort of gelatinous cheese, and doesn’t taste like hot ass served fresh from Chef Ass-Ardee. Thirdly, I cannot sit and drink beer all the live long day, even if I wanted to. For about 30 seconds, he managed to make me feel shitty for spending the money on my weekend. But you know, fuck it. Some women hit the spa with girlfriends and drink mimosas, then shop. Other women play bunko. Some get their black dresses on and hit the clubs. These are highly social situations for which I am not completely mentally or financially equipped to do right now. I work too much and have a kid. I don’t want to discuss shit with the girls while getting my toes done and I suck at cards.
Me? I am simple. I want a fucking t-bone, eat dubious amounts of bleu cheese with it, fix a swanky side dish, and watch a movie. I told my husband to mind his business and concentrate at his task this weekend of watching the kid. I may ding dong ditch a bitch or two, perhaps sip some tequila and listen to some Blondie. Who knows. But I have one weekend to do it, and do it I am. If you hear an audible scream and see a bright white orb flash through the sky on Saturday night. That was me. Chances are the steak was good, the silence golden, the movie funny and the dessert sweet. And maybe I didn’t have to fake it this time either. Like I said, that bitch is clever. She knows.
Bebe
The Crab Bucket 