Journey Proud

I'm getting a little journey proud¹ about my upcoming weekend away from home, which is a very rare occurrence for me. Okay, I did go on an overnight trip to my older son's wedding three hours away in May, so technically I suppose this second night away from Mom and home in one calendar year makes me a bit of a world-weary traveling sophisticate. I've hired the same caregiver who stayed with Mom last time, and I'm fairly certain that she won't smoke crack or pawn the silver, at least not without the cooperation of Scott and Anna, although their loyalty can be bought if her crack is the good shit.

So I'm not too worried about Mom making it for a couple of days without me, and Lord knows Anna and Scott are old enough to leave behind. So what am I dreading?

1. I've been a shut-in for so long that I've developed a mild case of agorophobia, just to round out the set of phobias I already had.^2,3 I'm not panicky when I leave the house, but I feel awkward and self-conscious in public. Maybe this is more a function of being old and fat and ugly than being agoraphobic, because I've really let myself go. Actually, I didn't just let myself go, I insisted that I leave and I let the door hit me in the ever-broadening ass on my way out.

2. I can't go off and let a near-stranger stay in my house in its present filthy condition, but I'm the world's worst housekeeping procrastinator, so I'm putting off cleaning until the last possible second, at which point I'll go crazy and shriek at the kids to help and then yell that they're not doing it right. Then we'll get one room very very clean, doing things like cleaning crevices in the picture frames with Q-Tips, and only leave time to barely pick up in the rest of the house. That's my system. I should patent it before one of you cowardly scumbags⁴ steals it and writes a book and makes a fortune off it.

3. I have nothing to wear. Seriously, if you looked in my closet, which I beg you not to do, you'd wonder if that's just where I store old clothes suitable for painting and dumpster-diving. I'm not going anywhere that requires dressing up, but I don't think I own anything that's not spotted with grease stains. It's sort of a hazard of my diet.⁵ Maybe this zit by my mouth will get so big people will avert their eyes before they notice what I'm wearing. (Oh great, I bet that's the one wish I'll make in my lifetime that's going to come true.)

I'm kind of excited about getting away, though. Three of my sisters and I are going to the American Idol concert. I don't really like concerts and would never buy an Idol singer's cd, but it should be a great time, because my sisters are funny as hell. We're considering making signs mocking the performers we particularly hate. We'll do Creepy Blind Scott's sign in Braille, of course. If you have any suggestions for sign slogans, leave me a comment.



¹ A feeling that's a combination of anticipation and dread that causes insomnia and anxiety before a trip.

² A crippling fear of driving kept me from getting my license until I was 42, but I'm also afraid of heights, elephants, daddy longlegs and public speaking. I blame my mother for this, because she's got several phobias. She's terrified of flying and is so weird about electricity that I think she was probably scared to change lightbulbs.

³ Oddly for such a couple of pussies, Mom longs to be a storm tracker, one of those crazies who drives TOWARD tornadoes, and I'd abandon the whole family so fast their heads would spin if I had the chance to go on a crabfishing boat in the Bering Sea. Call me, Sig Hansen. I'll bait your traps, IYKWIM (and I'm not sure I do).

⁴ That's my John Walsh impression.

⁵ Shut up, I didn't say it was a weight loss diet. It's a high-fat, high-calorie diet of my own devising. And I'm going to patent it before I say another word here about it, you lowlife dirtball. (That's more of my John Walsh.)