My son has been invited to spend winter vacation with his friend, in Boca. Yes, my 8 year old will be pool-side, sipping Mai Tais, playing mah jongg, and dancing in a grass skirt, while I shovel snow in New York City, racked with swine flu, with nary an Entenmann’s cake to be found for healing purposes.
(Yes, I am aware that I’ve cast a 60 year old woman in the role of my son. It’s called comedic-poetic license. And it’s totally legal. )
I mention this unfairness to Husbandrinka and he’s like, “whatever. Let him have fun.”
And I’m totally not against my children having fun, except when it means that I’m not having fun because (1) I am super worried about their having fun or (2) I am Left Behind, a la End of Times, except in New York City.
Besides, what Husbandrinka seems to have totally forgotten is that for years I lived with my super cute Basset Hound, Mavis, who had standing weekend invitations to the Hamptons and several upstate destinations.
Yes, people would invite my dog over for the weekend. Because apparently she was scintillating company.
“Is Mavis available?” they would ask.
“It just so happens that we’re both free!” I’d surprise them with the good news, in case they were too shy to come out and invite me along.
“Great! I’ll have Mavis picked up Friday morning. We want to get beat the traffic to Southampton.”
So, I would sit at home, rotting in the NYC heat, breathing in life-endangering pollution, while Mavis was probably getting exfoliated on the beach.
It’s a good thing that I have such a big heart, because many others would be totally bitter. And no one likes to have a bitter person along for the weekend. Or on vacation. In sunny Florida.
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