Apparently, for my dear husband, Keith…the honeymoon is over.
And ok. Maybe a little for me, too.
Last weekend, I was alone.
Him and Cayla did some bonding. Went hunting or camping or whatever. I didn’t really care. I just knew I was going to be a-totally-lone for a full weekend. And that’s all that mattered.
They left on Friday and that was that.
I. Was. Single.
Ready to mingle.
My weekend consisted of a whole lot of me. Which is tough for even me to stomach, but I did it. Got up early Saturday morning and took off downtown and walked. For quite a while.
(I decided to start trying to lose the 817 pounds I gained since saying “I do.”)
Hit a couple of farmers markets…went to a specialty Cajun market….bought some new lipgloss…hit up a thrift store…just whatever the hell I wanted to do.
I went home and just did, well…nothing. For 3 hours. I sat in my chair and I read some, watched a little TV, mopped the kitchen floor…nothing.
(I only mopped so it would appear something was done when they returned home.)
(Not that I cared. But I kinda felt like I should. But I didn’t.)
Then I got a massage. Oh, yes I did. Had to. All the stress of being a-totally-lone was killing me. Simply killing me. One person can stand just so much remote flipping and ass scratching and dozing off. That does start to wear on you after a while, you know?
Anyway…speed up to their return on Sunday.
Hugs, tell-me-all-about-it-crap, I-missed-you-so-much-crap, put-your-tent-and-crap-up-crap, why-does-the-kitchen-floor-have-mud-on-it-I-just-mopped-it-crap, I-said-put-your-crap-up-crap, somebody-needs-to-scrub-their-butt-because-y’all-ain’t-bathed-in-two-days-and-one-of-you-wreak-crap, you’re-going-to-shave-that-face-before-bed-crap, and well…you know. The norm.
Life is now back to normal.
Or, more like, I’m back to bitching about dishes being left in the sink instead of going into the dishwasher and screaming “I leave at 6:30 every morning, I work 40 hours a week and sit in traffic 10 hours a week, I gotta have some friggin help around here sometimes! Please take my crap to the dry cleaners because nobody at work wants to see me in my robe!”
Or something like that.
(I’m sure they’d still like to be back in that tent by now. Eating their stale Triscuit crackers, their nasty, cold hot dog weenies and that mashed up loaf of bread.)
But I love’em. Whether they love me or not…I love them enough for all three of us. And I’m glad they’re home.
(How many lies can you tell before it counts as hell-worthy?)
(Surely God doesn’t read my crap, right?)
That might be a tad reason as to why I say my honeymoon is over. I’m complex like that.
Deep. Complicated. Convoluted. Perplexing.
You get it.
Now, you must be asking, “Well, what makes you think Keith’s honeymoon is over??”
Last night I’m sitting in bed with my laptop on my lap and he goes in the bathroom and after a couple of minutes I hear his phone playing some music or video or something and I holler out “Hey! Aren’t you about ready to come to bed?? What are you doing in there?” and he replies with:
“ENJOYING MY COMMODE TIME.”
(Oh, hell yes he did.)