Oh- blog me.
As I have walked around the house this week, alternately sniveling and snarling, it dawned upon me that I am somehow familiar in this role.
A good person, well a person like you for example, would return from her weekend in San Francisco refreshed, rejuvenated, and sloshing over with the milk of human kindness. She would whistle, if she was able to do so.
Me, though, I have been in a full-blown funk since that first San Franciscan raindrop splattered the homeward bound plane. I didn't want to go home. I wanted to stay suspended in time, perpetually on vacation in California. And now that I am home I am overwhelmed by how boring it all is: the laundry, the never-quite-clean kitchen, the groceries that have to be acquired, put away, taken out, converted into food and then acquired all over again. Yes, yes, disclaimer, disclaimer, love love, motherhood, yes, joy, Patrick, etc, but...
Chronologically, and briefly, my adventure went like this. First I panicked. Then we got to the airport and I leaned in the back seat to tell Patrick I would see him later and his face crumpled like aluminum foil and he started to cry. Shaky, I made it to my gate and through a series of small miracles got upgraded to first class. Things were improving. Our flight was 45 minutes early and I negotiated the whole rental car-highway-directions fear with great success. I checked into the beautiful Claremont in Berkeley and the 20-something desk clerk flat-out flirted with me. Things were most definitely improving. I played prima donna and switched rooms a couple of times (sure I used to smoke but that doesn't mean it isn't still gross when the room shimmers with 90 years of other people's tobacco.) I called my friend Fernanda about forty times for restaurant suggestions and to rub in the fact that I was having a glamorous adventure while she was home with children/husband/dog. I was meeting strange women from the Internet at the bar so I went down early with a book and fortified myself with a salad and a bottle of champagne. Actually, I was pretty suave about it. I asked the waiter for the wine list and he flipped the menu over saying, "Our wines by the glass are right here" and I arched a delicate brow and replied, "And by the bottle...?" "Just a moment, madam." MADAM, I ask you. So I had a glass of champagne and read my book and eventually Kristina showed up. I had no idea what she would look like and she was so tiny and cool-looking that I decided there was no way she was somebody's mother. In time we got it all sorted out and I promptly knocked over a champagne flute, smashing it to bits and drenching her in sparkling wine. Not so very suave after all. Then sweet JK arrived and finally astonishing Brooke who is absolutely totally and completely delicious. Delicious, I tell you, and we had a very nice time indeed.
The Ex, Julian, arrived at a moment when Kristina and Brooke and I were just settling down to a good gossip. This was as spectacularly awkward as one could possibly imagine. I felt rushed and embarrassed and prefer not to think about the ass I made out of myself in the process.
Julian and I went out to dinner and it was... perfect. He was perfect.
And then there was the baby shower and dinner with Carrie and her husband and a slow Sunday morning that I spent like I would have under the same circumstances if I were, say, 16 again.
Which brings me to the rain-splattered tarmac and the wholly misdirected sense that I somehow deserved to stay there forever, indulging every little whim.