On First Overnight Separation

Last week, Thursday, I was presented with the idea of my husband taking G-Money up north a day early, leaving me completely alone until roughly 7pm Friday night.

At first, I was in a tizzy. What the hell do you mean you're taking my baby up north without me? He'll miss his mommy! I came to my senses shortly thereafter.

Just think of the things I could do totally unencumbered. I wouldn't have to worry about planning meals, bedtime, sleeping curled up in the fetal position fearfully waiting for the boy to wake up. I could do whatever the hell I wanted! Immediately I sent the word out. I was desperate to go out for a cocktail, on the fly, not having to worry about being home for bed time. I got home from work, itchy to start my child-free day as soon as possible. I waited and waited for responses. When I heard nothing, I began to feel deflated, like I was going to be wasting my "day off" just hanging out at home. I cleaned the house (though much quicker since G wasn't there to "help me.) I did some laundry, changed the sheets on my bed. I packed for the weekend. Then I started to sulk. WTF, where was everyone? I started to accept the fact that I might not be doing anything that night.

Finally... a simple text... "You coming?" Holy hot shit! A response! I ran out of the house on the fly, something which I haven't done in a year, honestly, most of my life because I'm perpetually late. I eagerly drove down the road and met my best pal for a couple cocktails and dinner. I didn't think about the kid once while I was there, except for the time or two I mentioned him.

When I got home to go to bed, I thought, oh, maybe I'll be upset because he's not around. Surely I won't be able to sleep knowing he's not in the house. I'm going to cry myself to sleep. Wrong again, my friends! I slept like a friggen' log. That is, until about 5:30 when I had a half hour coughing fit that totally ruined my slumber. Of course the whiskey might have had something to do with my fitful sleeping.

The next morning, I got out of bed without having to worry about the cat and dog waking him up. I got to eat my entire breakfast without my little scavenger begging for scraps. I got to leave the house without feeling guilty about leaving him again. It was all very refreshing.

I was expecting some huge fanfare when we got back together Friday night. I was expecting him to be so geeked, for him to run up to me and not let me go. Boy, was I disappointed. Sure, he was thrilled to see me. He had a big smile on his face and came over and gave me a big hug, but after a few minutes, he tossed me aside like yesterday's bitch.

Yes, I'll admit it. I missed G while he was gone... but, I certainly won't turn down another opportunity to be child free if his daddy wants to take him somewhere over night sans me.

On "That Writing Itch"

Lately I've had thoughts swirling through my head to write. To write something, to write anything. If y'all remember, I was working on another manuscript before I became knocked up with G-Money. Of course, I thought what I was writing was a huge, flaming turd, but rumor has it, that all writers feel that way about their work.

This itch has returned with a vengeance. It's uncontrollable, it's a tick, I'm jonesin'. Yet, I've done nothing about it. Why? I'll blame it on the kid. I'll say, between working full time and trying to give G-Money a happy childhood, there's just no time for writing. Go ahead, you can call bullshit. It's probably true. If I was a total die-hard, my ass would be in the chair after the boy goes to bed. I'd spend an hour or so after his bedtime and before mine feeding my addiction, hunched over the computer desk, staring at the white screen, blinking cursor, thinking of some sort of twisted shit to write.

Do you want to know what I do instead? I chill for five minutes and enjoy the silence and wind down from the tornado that boy is. I let the dog out, and stand out on the deck, listening to crickets and bullfrogs. I pick up the myriad of toys he's strewn all over the house. I tell the cat to shut his fat mouth because he's not eating AGAIN. I plop down on my bed and start reading some quality fiction and escape for a half hour or so before I pass out. Basically, I'm making up excuses not to park my ass in the chair and write.

Lately, I've been thinking about revamping "Stress Test" so it's not so cagey. I've been thinking about rerouting the whole plot, but then, it would cease to be its former self. I think part of the reason I didn't go hard into promoting that book is because, I didn't feel like it was my best work, but it was the best that that story was going to get, at that time. But now, a few years later, maybe I have more to offer to the story. I think revamping the former work is also giving me an excuse not to work on my current "sitting in the drawer" manuscript.

The bottom line is, no matter what else I'm doing with my life, deep down, I've still got the urge to write. Even though, I don't do it nearly as much as I should, (or at all right now for that matter.) It's been a constant for two decades, and I'm sure it will never amount to anything, but at least it will be out there.