I don’t know what’s going on with Diaryland’s servers. I posted this yesterday, but it wasn’t showing up on the buddy lists, it wasn’t showing up as an index page, it wasn’t showing comments that were left, and what is more, I can’t even seem to find it to edit it, as I had planned on adding pictures to it. Anyway, if you read this already, scroll down to the bottom, where I’ve added pictures.
It is back in the saddle again this week. Somewhere along the way, I became one of those people who don’t take vacations to relax, but rather to run around like a over wound doll, key spinning madly in my back, until I collapse in an airplane seat and then spend the rest of the week making up for lost sleep. I should probably remedy that, but sitting on the beach reading a book and thumbing ones nose at skin cancer just seems exceptionally boring. However these Things To Do, People To See, Money To Burn vacation recovery periods are a bitch.
I received a call from my credit card company, asking if I knew where my card was. I did. Of course I did. It was curled into a fetal position in the corner of my purse. I only used one card all weekend, a frequent flier card, so I suppose it did see a lot of activity, but honestly, not any more than I have spent on a given shopping weekend. Also, I’ve easily doubled the charges to a single card when we were engaged on a house project. However, apparently hedonism in Vegas just doesn’t fit in with my DINK demographic, and since there were no Sephora or Torrid charges on there to assuage their worries, they immediately assumed the worst. I had to sit there as the credit card lady ran down the suspect charges and say ‘yes, yup, that was me’ uh huh, the spa, the dinner, the hotel, the spa again, the shoes, all mine’ yup, yes, ok, thank you.’ It was like she was defensive, trying to prove why they thought my card was stolen and that I couldn’t possibly be that spend thrifty. I sensed judgment. I wanted to say ‘Look, lady, I am SO the type of person to be irresponsible with my money, so just stop bustin’ my balls already, ok?’ Except that I don’t have balls. But maybe I would, had I found them for sale in Las Vegas.
Ward and June opened the pool while I was away, and thus on Tuesday, instead of doing my pile of laundry, I met Esteban at the parent’s house, where they fed us burgers and brownies (which I abstained from, as I feel like a bucket of lard after eating all weekend) and then floated in the pool until it started to get chilly and begin to rain. Then I went home and tried madly to get back on my early to bed, early to rise CST schedule.
On Wednesday (I think) I had a delightful chat on the phone with Mare, who wanted to make sure that I had survived Vegas, and forgot to wish her a happy birthday and welcome her to the ranks of women in their glorious thirties. Seriously, I am having so much more fun in my thirties than I ever did in my twenties, so it’s all good. And also, more disposable income.
In the evening, Markus, who is in town for a family funeral, called and asked if it would be ok if he hung out at our house until he leaves for Atlanta. Of course, he didn’t even have to ask, as our door is always open and also I never get to see him enough. However, he came home with Esteban long after I was in bed, and I basically waved at him as I was leaving for work in the morning. But when I got home from work yesterday, apparently he had been busy, as he had dinner in the oven, homemade cookies on the counter, laundry folded on the sofa, and had apparently cleaned the bathroom (the sink probably drove him to it, as I cannot get it clean due to the fact that the drain refuses to, you know, drain, and there’s always a ring of schmeng in there. The sink drain has become my number one annoyance in the world).
So this is what it is like to have a wife.
I asked him if he wanted to move in and perhaps even offered to make it worth his time, wink wink. After a scrumptious dinner (Pulled pork ala Tyler Florence, real mashed potatoes and steamed carrots with pea pods), Markus started doing dishes. Esteban, feeling guilty, picked up a towel and began to dry them. I probably should have restrained my glee a little, but honestly, it was lovely that he helped without a fight. I wandered through the kitchen at one point and chortled, ‘Wow, I like this brave new world! Mark’s already going to be my wife, Esteban, so where does that leave you?’ And Markus replied, ‘Well, I don’t mind wearing the pearls as long as he wears the high heels.’
I wasn’t about to feel guilty myself. One of the last things I did before leaving for Vegas was to clean the house in case Mark crashed there, and when I returned, it was back to being a cluttered mess ala Esteban. Let him take long showers in that guilt. I will hand him the loofa.
