I am alone. Utterly alone. That’s right, there is my nod to a recent triple viewing of Beetlejuice brought on by ten straight days of movie night bliss. It gets to be slim pickings on Netflix streaming after about three snow days. After ten you just begin watching the same shit over and over, but I digress.
How, you may wonder, did I ever manage this day of solitude? Among other things, my mother, in her overbearing, soul crushing glory, is also a wonderous and available babysitter. She took my children on Saturday and I haven’t had to deal with them since.
I liken this deal to the hooker with a good heart who prostitutes herself during the evenings and then returns with her wad of cash to the orphanage where she hands over her earnings to the nuns and then cleans the floors with a toothbrush. In this convoluted case scenario I think I’m the hooker and my mother is the john. I’m not really sure who the orphans or the nuns are so maybe I better drop this comparison because it’s getting dirty and wrong and I think I just heard my floor crack open and Satan come up through the boards.
Nevermind. Let’s just say I endure her sometimes harsh criticism and acid tongue to reap the benefits of free weekends. I feel this is a fair trade-off even if it does make me feel a tad soiled sometimes.
After a long luxurious shower, I’m now off to the grocery store unencumbered where I can push my cart all leisurely and slow through the aisles while pretending I’ve got a life.
