F had his belated birthday party yesterday, ending the official holiday season at the Mad Mutter household. Finally. At last. With a tired, somewhat limp hallelujah. J was gone from Wednesday night until Sunday night at the annual trade show he goes to for the music industry (NAMM), and Wednesday was F's birthday. Hence the late celebration and the inadequately disguised lack of enthusiasm on the part of his mother. Because being a single mom is remarkably difficult for me, especially when the dishwasher stops working and the fixer guy can't come until Wednesday.
I used to wash dishes all the time. As we had kids, the amount of time spent doing it slowly crept up until I swear it consumed about 30% of my day, and I got very very cranky about the whole affair. So then we got the dishwasher, and it was like the sun breaking out of the clouds and the swelling song of angels, and now I am utterly spoiled and feel personally affronted, even betrayed, when the thing breaks down. This is the first time, mind you-- it has been a good and faithful servant for many years. But I don't even care, I'm still really angry with it.
Anyway. The good thing about the NAMM convention is first that J can say, 'I'm going to NAMM, man.' Well. He doesn't actually say that but I think it. He doesn't find the name as amusing as I do. But the convention is in Anaheim, home of the freakish and dreaded Disneyland. He traditionally brings home strange cultural artifacts from there, like a mickey mouse/ dildo shaped device with twirling, light up LED ears for M. And elbow length white princess gloves for C (which she conscientiously removed to eat her pepperoni pizza last night, though I think that was the only time). Last year he brought us two bizarro shot glasses with sculpted glass Tinkerbells protruding from the sides. I pray that we never, ever have to go there as a family. Please God.
The convention itself attracts many famous and wannabe famous folks in the music industry, and I get to hear all about them. And also J asked me this time if I wanted him to put the lap dance on the debit or credit card. I'm thinking maybe he should earn the money washing dishes.
The best people watching story I got this time was a fellow he spotted hanging around their booth who was reportedly about 6'6" (I don't know what that is in meters, but it's a lot, trust me) tall, and was sporting a full length red leather coat, long black hair, and white contact lenses. Yeesh. White contact lenses! When he stalked off at some point, J said, 'he's probably going off to worship Satan', and another guy said, 'Naaah. He's probably just going off to pee.' And then Stevie Wonder was supposed to be headed their way, but we got off the phone before I found out if he actually showed up. Oh, and also he spotted Alice Cooper, or maybe an Alice Cooper impersonator-- who can tell with all the makeup?
In the end, I'm just deeply grateful J is home. He's been gone three times in the last three months, for four or five days each time, not that I'm counting. Because I am a good and supportive wife, and never resentful of the extra work it requires of me. Never. And also because I'm storing up days to desert J and the children and head off to Italy for a couple of weeks for a fresco workshop near Venice. In a restored monastery. Take that, Disneyland! His trip in December was to Berlin for a few days, which is a bit harder to top, but I think I will make it. And I vow I will not feel even the teensiest bit guilty.