Sorry, it must look like I have been sulking about not being pregnant (most definitely not pregnant, oh so very not pregnant- I am more a river otter than I am pregnant), but no, no. Not sulking, just busy.
My husband deserted me around midday on Friday and I have been tending to Patrick, alone and without a leader (Penge Bungalow murder reference), ever since. Not that unadulterated Patrick, all day every day starting at 6 ack emma, isn't delightful- it is. But it is sort of like eating box after box of Fazer mints; heavenly though it might be, at some point you feel the need for a lie down.
Once I got the little chunk of muffin secured into his crib for an evening snooze, I probably could have poured myself a glass of wine and hopped on the internet. Instead, I found myself surrendering utterly to wanton abandon. I wallowed in my deepest, darkest pleasures. I did the things a girl just cannot do with her husband breathing down her neck every five seconds: I ORGANIZED.
I dumped all of Steve's clothes onto the bedroom floor and rearranged his drawers by season and then by color. Yeah, color. It is actually how he wears them and therefore how I wash them and, ergo, how it will be easiest to put them away again. After dealing with the clothing, I pulled every beauty product, cleansing unguent and medicinal aid from the bathroom cupboards and shower seat and bathtub rim and sorted them. Mostly I sorted them straight into the garbage (does Steve have a sentimental attachment to old vitamins? I mean, I know I keep certain bottles of hand lotion because the smell reminds me of that time I.... anyway), but the products that made the cut are now arranged by category and segment. I then realized that the mineral build-up in Steve's shower had gotten totally out of hand, so I scrubbed the glass walls with sliced lemon. Then I applied a little elbow grease and a vinegar rinse and voila! it is fucking gorgeous in there. As it should be.
I cannot even admit to the changes I made in my recipe filing system. It took two days and involves three shelves of a kitchen cabinet, four magazine holders from Target, and eight different colors of tiny Post-it notes. But WOW oh WOW! It is making me feel all tingly just talking about it. Who can lay her hot little hands on four distinctly different ceviche recipes in less than 15 seconds, not two feet from where I now sit? Oh yeah. You know you want it, baby.
Who says I don't live for pleasure alone?
I swore off gossip, I know, but I am only human, you know, and my midlife crisis buddy has pushed me to a point where I MUST TELL SOMEONE how ridiculous he is. I mean, good gravy! However, the Detroit Pistons need me right now. So, tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.