| My sons, these strange creatures I have spawned, are beginning to become obsessed with the fact they cannot dissuade me from leaving them. I am running away. I am going to actually get on a plane and leave the state. I will not be able to come at their beck and call. I won't be there to cook. Or do laundry. I won't be there to settle fights over the four computers, the five TV sets or the hundreds of videos. I won't be there to find batteries for the Game Gear or the games for the Sega. They will actually have to care for their collections of two dogs, two cats, five rabbits and six Chinchillas. They will have to find their own shoes. They will have to cook. I won't be here. I am going to San Antonio to meet and party with other women who like romance novels. Women who might read my books if I ever get a novel published. I am going to take a computer with me and work on my novel. I am a serious writer, after all, pursuing my dream. Sure. My kids will tell you. I am really going to see Fabio. And they are going nuts. They have learned to leave his calendar alone. They have been convinced that food will stop if they don't tape his TV appearances when I am away from home. No more demands for fifty dollar video games in exchange for Entertainment Tonight. A slab of beef was used to obtain the Hard Copy interview. I am learning. They know not to touch my Fabio pictures (52), my clipped magazine stories or my framed photos from the San Diego convention (Fabio had his arm around me. I had mine around him. Sigh.) What they are doing is reminding me of my age. I don't care that I'm old enough to be his mother. I'll adopt him. I'll commit incest. They tell me I am dreaming. They point out sweet young things in photos. They tell me I live in a fantasy world. I'm making a black velvet dress. They are arranging to be ill. One even stepped on a nail. I have to run to the doctor. I have to get medicine. I loose precious time. I slit the skirt clean up to the hip. They refuse to do chores. They refuse to help me find my luggage. They demanded payment not to loose my airplane tickets. I cut the neckline down to my navel. They set fire to the yard when I asked them to burn the wood pile. They reminded me that the older boy plays with fire. They reminded me that he has always done this. How he set fire to the stove the last time I left them. I bought earrings. The older one has discovered women. His age. He informed me one day, while I was driving home from work at 45 miles an hour in my Toyota van in rush hour traffic, that he was no longer a virgin. This is supposed to make me aware that my time is over. I didn't even wreck the car. I bought the Pirate. I started reading it. I drooled on the cover. They threw laundry down the stairs and refused to do dishes. I ordered rings from QVC. To go with the dress. They won't mow the lawn. Or take out the garbage. These things are designed to make me tired, as someone has to do them. These things are designed to take me away from the sewing machine. B. Dalton gave me the promo cut out for the Pirate. I set it up in my room. I hemmed the dress. The older one has a friend (female) on his BBS. He ties up my phone so I can't call for reservations. I call from work. They have decided not to get along. I have decided not to cook until they are civil. I haven't found my luggage yet, but I will. I do have a room. I do have my tickets. I am trying to loose weight. Just a tad. The dress looks like it was spray painted on me. I look like an expensive hooker. I'm ready for Halloween. The boys refuse to look at it. They are sulking now. I've just made arrangements for a shuttle. They are huddled in the older boy's bedroom. Plotting. They have failed. It's a new experience for them. I'm making another dress. One better suited to my advanced years. I'm not telling them. The older one informs me he needs pants. He needs paint balls. He will be gone all weekend. He won't be home to help me plan menus for them on this last weekend home. Fine. I'll pack while its quiet. I'm ready. I have my four cameras. Fabio won't stand a chance. I hope he smiles. |
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He did!