Last night Wendy and I went to the Melting Pot to work our magic. Apparently they get vendors for their monthly Ladies’ Night Out. Who knew? We were just going for the food. But you so knew I wasn’t going to get out of the house easy.
TB: Mom. Mom. Mom. Are you going to a meeting?
The Husband looked up and I hoped that he would just keep his mouth shut. I mean, we go days without hearing his voice. Why throw off the delicate balance that is our house now?
D: Buddy, Mom’s going to ANOTHER meeting.
K: Babe, somebody’s gotta keep this family in the lap of luxury (dramatically pointing to our humble abode). Are you mad that I’m going out again?
The man is a saint. It is only a matter of time before you are able to google the words, “the man is a saint” and this blog will be at the top of the list. He groaned.
D: At least you are really working hard.
K: At all these parties?
We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I kept off Twitter and the Internet in general.
“Baby, I’m working so hard” is a tough sell when he is sitting in The ‘Potle with the kids (for the second day in a row because I was making shirts instead of cooking), reading that I have absolutely no place to put away this third mojito after I have eaten a pound of strawberries dipped in a chocolate fountain. That I come home night after night, regaling him with stories of spilled wine, delicious food, fabulous friends. I feel like I am a traveling sales rep and my husband is sitting at home, eating mac and cheese.
And some nights you feel like you are making him proud and some nights it’s practically silent and you find yourself giving your friend a hand massage with Melting Pot lotion while sipping your Yin and Yang Martini. You wanna go home and apologize, but then you realize that he is just happy because you are almost back to being the fun, carefree girl he married.
Who will make him proud by being on Oprah…someday…