I’ve been extra busy the past couple of weeks because Alex has gone away for the past two weekends, and will again next weekend. The reason for his travel—nay, abandonment? He’s going to see Phish. And, yes, your math is right: He will miss Halloween.
Big sad-face emoticon.
Naturally, I’ve been a little surly. Part of me is all, “Go ahead, sweetheart. Have a great time.” But then, this other part of me, who is dragging my three kids all over tarnation all weekend by myself while he sleeps in and then goes to see cool music at night is like, “I haaaaate you.”
That mean, kinda terrible (but oh, so justified), part of me laughed really hard on Sunday when Alex called to let me know that he hurt his leg because he fell into a ditch.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Seriously. The dude—stone cold sober, by the way—wandered off the road a little bit and fell into a ditch. A ditch, for the love of Christ. Who does that? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Oh, shut up. He’s fine. It’s not like he’s still lying there or anything.
This whole thing reminded me of the time years ago when Alex and I were crossing the driveway next to our marriage therapist’s office and she almost backed over him. I laughed and laughed and laughed. The therapist seemed to think there was something deeply damaged in my subconscious because I thought it was so hysterical that she almost killed Alex, but I swear I was just enjoying the irony.
C’mon. Alex was almost run over by his therapist. That’s funny, right? It’s not a sign of a latent hatred of my husband, right? If anything, it just means that I’m kind of a bitch. And it’s not like she actually hit him or anything. I bet I wouldn’t have laughed nearly as hard if she’d done that.
Also, maybe that therapist was trying to throw the blame off of her own self, hmmmm?*
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make a very guilt-ridden traveling Alex do stuff for me. Like the dishes.
* We left that therapist shortly after Sam was born and she freaked out when we told her that we weren’t giving him a pacifier and she went on and on about lifelong oral fixation or some such. We never scheduled another appointment and she never called to see if we were still alive. I don’t think she was a very good therapist. Or a very good driver, either.