Ragtime Band

Thanks to all who offered words of encouragement and support in my hour of need two nights ago. Didn't mean to sound like such a weenie. I was having a MOMENT. I'd love to be able to say it had some profound meaning in the scheme of things, but as it turns out...

You'd think, after experiencing the joys of womanhood for a full twenty-seven years* and counting, I'd learn to recognize the symptoms, but NOOOOOO...it wasn't until last night, when I shed tears of sentimental joy over my husband's purchasing of the correct brand of trash bag without having been reminded, nagged or otherwise driven to an early grave, that I realized the true nature of my MOMENT.

To be fair, I'm a week and a half early, according to my less-than-meticulously-kept records, though I'm betting if you asked my husband, my son, or Watcher Don--the three males with whom I have the most regular contact--they'd tell you they've seen it coming for DAYS. Though my son probably can't tell you what "it" is, exactly.

After giving it much thought, I've chosen to blame the early arrival on...wait for it...

RWA!

Or, more precisely, the fact that I'm not going to The Conference.

I pretend not to care that I'm not going to The Conference. I joke about sulking while patting myself on the back for all the money I'm saving. I tell myself I'll get LOTS of writing done while the loops and blogs are quiet. I remind myself about the deal I made with Husband--website and promotion expenses, plus one or even two smaller regional cons in exchange for not going to National. (It sounded like an excellent deal at the time. And it was even MY idea.)

But today, while everybody else is boarding flights or at the very least stuffing suitcases and getting those last-minute mani- and pedicures, and I'm sitting here waiting for the cable guy to show because my internet connection is tenuous, at best, I'm suddenly transported back to 1979, when I was the only girl in Mr. Tylawski's seventh grade class not invited to Paula Wyss's rollerskating party. I remember I wrote a really bad poem about it and left it on the kitchen counter for my mother to read. She corrected the grammar and left it next to my bowl of Grape Nuts the next morning. You just don't find that kind of parental warmth and compassion anymore.

Mmmm...Grape Nuts. Bet they don't have THOSE at that crappy hotel in Reno. And I don't have to wear a single foundation garment in the next five days if I don't want to. (And believe me when I say I don't--see earlier post regarding underwear in general.) Or makeup. Or shoes, unless I go to the grocery store.

Yes, the bright side of being left out is that I get to be a slob in the privacy of my own home. A HORMONAL slob, prone to having MOMENTS, no less.

Barb, if you're out there? You dodged a bullet, babe. Methinks I'd have made a less than satisfactory roommate. Think Jack Nicholson from The Shining, but without the sense of humor and good hygiene.

Hmm...maybe today would be a good day to start work on that straight horror story?



*No, that's not my age, that's just how many years it's been since that first unforgettable experience with Kotex and safety pins. I was eleven at the time, and HORRIFIED. But not as much as my poor father, who thought I was FAR TOO YOUNG for such 'goings on' and grounded me for a week, over my mother's strident but ultimately ineffectual objections.