I am pretty sure that when my kids are out of home and leave me alone and I’m retired and my husband is dead or whatever (*making superstitious signs to avoid wrath of God for being so flippant about widowhood*) I will enjoy being my own woman again. Because I sure did this weekend. A synopsis:
* Being responsible for me. And only me. No one else’s clothes, food, ass, time, or feelings.
* Cleaning house in three hours and having it stay immaculate for forty-eight hours (“Cynthia, someone came in my house and did my dishes! Oh no wait, it was me, and no one’s fucked with them!”)!
* Renting silly movies or playing the Rolling Stones and not being mocked. By anyone.
* Night-terrors on first night alone. Cute, yet existentially terrorizing!
* Realizing I couldn’t bum favors off my husband, because he wasn’t there (or rather, he was off doing the biggest favor for me ever).
* Coming back to reality.
* I did not cook. At all. I either ate out or smeared peanut butter on a tortilla. I ate less, in fact, in general, and was spared the constant thinking of and shopping for food.
* A few dudes (ones I know and ones I don’t) got the “single chick” vibe and scoped my action. Sorry fellas, but even if I had whore-ish tendencies I still wouldn’t take you back to my place, because it is my place, and no one else’s!
* Girls-only slumber parties are as fun as ever!
Next event in line for the Kelly / Brenda / Kelly Sandwich (TM): whale-watching in PT followed by ferry ride and Moroccan cuisine / bellydancing in Seattle.