I’m at the San Ysidro Ranch in Santa Barbara for my 10th wedding anniversary. Don’t tell anyone who might try to find me. Including my kids and husband. I’m alone. I am still married. I think. Kidding. I’m still married, 10 years today.
But Henry’s taking the kids to my moms after school, then driving up here from L.A. I came up early to take my 97-year old grandma to lunch at the Elk’s Lodge with her Ostomy group.
I’m not sure you appreciate what that means. Let me spell it out — everyone at the Elks Lodge is pushing a 100 and Ostomates poop in a bag.
But man can they party.
Before my butt had warmed the chair my grandma, Irma, Marge and Joanne had all ordered vodka tonics. At this stage in life you just gotta let it rip.
Needless to say I felt compelled to join them and before you know it we were swapping war stories and showing each other our tattoos. Fortunately no one whipped out their ostomy bag, but Joanne noticed I had a whisker on my chin.
Anyhow, all of that to say I’m in the Fig Room alone for the next two hours. Here is the Fig Room:
|I would like to be buried in the Fig Room.|
I’m going to:
- Roll on the bed
- Lie on the couch
- Shamboozle in the bath tub
- Flip on the flat screen
- Mouth-vacuum the chocolate cookies
- Guzzle the wine
- Peruse books from The Fig’s exclusive library
- Laze on the enclosed patio sniffing lavender
- Give my Lady Garden a sprinkle on the bidet
- Snore under the covers with the filmy drape things drawn
- Belch like the gossamer, feminine waif I am
- Enjoy how the other half lives before I have to go back to breaking up Little Stinky Girl Rumbles in our backyard trampoline and pulling a white worm out of my cat’s mouth. (I wish that was a joke)
Not sure what I’m going to do when Henry gets here. I suppose we’ll celebrate our marriage. Meh.
(Just kidding, honey. I was a lame-ass fool until I met you. Just ask anyone in my family)