A Trip to Crazytown

Seth was away for the past few days with friends for their annual "Let's Prove We are Men Weekend."

This involves activities such as crushing beer cans on their heads but, unfortunately, since they are becoming forgetful as they grow older, they often forget to empty them first. Additional manly hijinks include comparing ear hair, measuring each other's body fat with souvenir calipers purchased from AARP's website and unintentionally undercooking pork.

They then go night-night a little after eight p.m to enjoy a good rest before getting up to do exactly the same things the following day.

I was left behind as usual. Thank goodness.

Over the years, I've made either the best or the worst of these solo weekends. When I'm on the upswing, I have gone on outings with the girls, read a few good books, gotten some writing done or replaced the summer clothes in the closet with their winter counterparts.

Not this time. I was on track to be a bad girl.

Being bad is simple. It means a package of Stella D'oro Marguerites (I defy you to find a better dunking cookie, America. Yeah, Oreos, I said it), a carton of 1% milk and (very) excessive TV watching. And yes, I have always been this wild.

 

The sad little puddle of hormones I have left were also, inexplicably, in quite an uproar. Combine that with a deep sense of paranoia about being alone and you end up with crying jags (perfectly timed to coincide with Seth's thoughtful phone calls home), obsessive checking and rechecking of the doors and windows, making sure the phones were charged so I could call 911 if necessary and watching instructional self-defense videos on youtube.

I believe I can now successfully shove your nose up into your brain if you attack me.

By the time Seth got home, I was well-ensconced in Crazy Town. Here is a true chronicle of the events as they ensued with a quick smidge of background info first....

Some months ago in specific preparation for this weekend, I began researching fake tattoos in order to upset my husband since he DOES NOT want me to get a tattoo. Wasn't that nice of me? Going out of my way to freak out a perfectly nice man who always puts my needs before his own?

But no one ever said life is fair.

I found a nice fake tattoo of a cat (what else?) and had been hiding it in my dresser drawer, sneaking it out regularly to admire it and reread the instructions (wet thoroughly, wait 20 seconds, mess with husband's brain), all the while chuckling happily to myself.

Today was finally Tattoo Day! Even though no one else was home, I crept into my own bedroom and stealthily removed the tattoo from its hiding spot. I not only transferred it successfully to the inside of my wrist but, in a moment of pure genius, artfully applied blush and vaseline in order to make the area look painful and authentic.

I was sure it looked 100% real. I then did lots more chuckling.

Seth called from the airport and I was ready--tattoo and all. Upon his arrival, he spots the tattoo within the first five minutes. "Nice fake tattoo." says he.

"What?? I cleverly respond, genuinely stunned. "This is real. It's a real tattoo. Real. Tattoo. Yes, siree. Look how red and swollen it is. It's real, all right!"

He was not buying it but I kept trying. Touching it and wincing in pain, I shouted the words "tattoo" and "real" several times more but he was not to be moved.

Okay, I was happy he was home so I cut my losses and after giving him a bowl of soup and a nutty smile, sat down to continue what I'd been doing right before he'd walked in the door: googling "hats for cats."

Seriously (sorry, Tom and Charlie).

Lately, I've been wanting a few cunning little hats for Buzzy who is so handsome that it stands to reason a little hat would only enhance his appeal. But I discovered that little hats for cats are very, very expensive (especially the sombrero). Try as I might, I could not justify such an expense.

But what's this? Seth had finished his soup and was now peering at the computer screen over my shoulder. Seeing an array of small hats, available for purchase, for cats, he stepped backward and muttered something about cat tattoos, little hats and how I must "finally have lost my friggin' mind."

At that very moment, Buzzy jumped up on the table, knocking my Diet Coke over onto the keyboard of the laptop. I immediately leaped to my feet and bellowed "CHARLIE!!" LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!!!

Now, obviously, Charlie is my son who is currently miles away and, most likely, had nothing to do with the Diet Coke spilling on my keyboard. The Stella D'oro cookies, however, were still in my system and all that sugar must have confused me. But when I looked up and saw the combination of genuine fear and concern on Seth's face, I began to laugh. And laugh.

And laugh.

And, as is my habit once a certain level of hilarity has been achieved, I burst into tears...only to laugh again and then cry again...then laugh...cry. You get the picture. Once this happens, laughter and tears must naturally burn out on their own. Sometimes this can take a while. I believe the technical term for this is hysteria.

 

Seth was pretty shaken up by the whole thing.

When he sees the nice little hats I will make for Buzzy out of paper cups and glitter, he's sure to feel a lot better.

 

It doesn't look that real after all.