Woe Is I

I am jonesing to get back to the cottage. I need to wallow a little. Miss the kids. Figure out my life. Let my woes and worries sink in and focus on them without interruption.

Without housework calling to me.
Without yard work nagging to be done.
Without cats to care for, laundry to be done, errands to run, shopping to be completed, bills to be paid.
Without the overwhelming reminder that it is Friday night and I should be doing something and I have no one to do it with. (This is where I get myself into trouble.)

I get to the cottage with my much lighter load and unlock the door. It still smells like it did when we left. Not enough time has passed for that closed-up house smell to return. It makes me sad about the kids.

I put the wine in the fridge. I put the bag of snacky stuff on the counter. I open the salad and close it again. Maybe tomorrow. I have a nervous stomach and will just eat a package of crackers for now.

I take a long hot shower and use some of my favorite shampoo. I put on a cool comfortable slouchy outfit. I make myself reasonably presentable (from a hair and makeup standpoint) in case there is a knock at the door. No one needs to be greeted by Medusa, and a French twist with a side of mascara and a swipe of lipstick is not a lot of effort to put forth.

I put on the radio and open the wine. I should just stick a straw in the top but I pour a civilized glass.

I finish the first glass on the porch watching the sun set and listening to the birds and the bullfrogs.

After one glass of Chardonnay I call the kids. I want to tell them, while I am still not slurring, that I had a wonderful week with them. That I loved every minute. That I will cherish the memories forever. They are my pride and my joy. And of course I will ask Hil about her period and her shorts and her chocolate supply and her heating pad and if she's feeling hungry or tired or cranky or crampy.

I top off the half empty glass and go sit at the table and set my sights on completing the most complicated 1,000 piece puzzle the kids and I have ever started. I probably have 300 pieces to go. I am sure some of them never made it into the box.

I pour a second glass. A little more generous than the first. I continue to work on the puzzle and think it would have been smart to have brought my readers with me. Of course I didn't. But I care a little less with every sip.

And as Fate would have it, the radio station I can get the clearest reception on is a light rock station, and of course they are playing all sappy love songs and woe is me songs of lament.

And finally a song sad enough to make me cry comes on the radio. And I let myself cry.

Cry about the kids.
Cry about Craig being missing in action.
Cry about being lonely.
Cry about not knowing what the next few weeks and months will bring.
Cry about having nothing to look forward to.
Cry about not having a purpose.

The sad songs keep coming and so do the tears. It feels really good to finally stop smiling for smiling's sake and just be a sniveling pile of hopeless misery.

I eventually dry my eyes, pour another glass and keep working on the puzzle. I shazam a country song about falling in love with the wrong guy. I want to call the artist and tell her she nailed it.

In between wine, sad songs, and bouts of tears, I finish the puzzle. I take a photo and text it to the kids with a happy message. They are so impressed that I finished it. It is good to be Mom.

With the wine gone and the puzzle done, I rinse my glass and turn off the lights. I walk upstairs wishing the cats were at my heels, brush my teeth, wash my tear-stained face, blow my nose one last time and go to bed.

And in the pitch darkness of the cottage nestled under a thick canopy of trees, I nod off telling myself that tomorrow is indeed a whole new day.