If you recall, two summers ago I went with my husband to the bigCity for a work-related event that involved bigWigs from his company. I even shaved my legs, wore a red lacy shirt, and a black, somewhat shiny skirt — albeit, I wore the schmooze-worthy outfit with cowboy boots. Cowboy boots that my husband polished, because really, I am not a car-washer, boot-polisher sorta gal. I drive it and I wear it and if it gets dirty, I don’t give a rip, toot, snot, or snort. I don’t have time for buffing and scrubbing – apparently I’m too busy whittling words out here in BlogLand.
Well, buckaroos, those two years have whiz-banged right on by, and today, Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise, I’m going to the bigCity again. For two nights. Not just the one.
And again, all manner of nervous, freaking out, fright-filled emotions have clamped their claws and jaws smack-dab onto places between my buttocks, back, and brain. Yeah, that’s right. I can feel razor-sharp pangs of pain.
Who: Some (so-called) friends of mine chewed my ear, harangued, and harassed me until I relented. They’re gonna have hell to pay if I have one of my hissy-fits, err, panic attacks. Hell. To. Pay.
What: A writer’s conference. One and a half daZe of being in a facility with more than a handful of people. Most of them strangers. Beware!
When: Soon, very soon, Grasshopper.
Where: Uh, the bigCity. Near a big freeway. No doubt, there will be lots of cars and people who lurk and speed and press into my personal bubble space. I’ve seen movies, I know.
And get this – by the time I succumbed to the peer pressure to attend the conference, there was not a single hotel-motel-bed & breakfast room to be had within a 40-minute drive of the venue. I live 90 minutes from it and I’m sure as shooting not gonna pay to stay closer to my house than to he blasted conference. (If you read along, you shall see a variation to this statement.) I was ready to email the gals to tell them it was a no-go for me when I thought about campgrounds. Uh, yep, as it turned out, there’s one 10 minutes from the conference with cabins available for rent.
So now, I’ve booked a “deluxe” cabin and I’ve paid the deposit. And yes, I paid extra for four walls with an indoor toilet. Apparently the toilet is what hoists it up a notch to the “deluxe” model. The cabin is a shell, the camp host said… a very bare-bones, minimalistic place with plastic-covered mattresses. FunTimes. I’m brining my homemade anti-viral-fungal-bacterial-germ spray.
Just this morning, my husband laughed and snickered that the pot probably is in the corner of the one-room cabin. “Ha ha ha. I bet there aren’t any walls around the toilet. All the girls will have to leave the cabin every single time someone has to uh, you know, go.” Oh ha ha ha yourself, tallGuy.
Some other womenfolk, from up here in the wildWood boondocks, couldn’t find sleeping arrangement either, so five of us will share the cabin. Five women. One toilet. One shower. I’m pretty low-maintenance so I’ll huddle in my sleeping bag and wrap my husband’s scratchy wool blanket about my wet-haired head — because I’ll do my personal hygiene prep work the night before. (I’m sure you needed to know that.)
Why: I have no idea.
Last night, to no avail, I searched for a comfortable, cozy, furniture-laden, linens provided, well-stocked pantry sort of cabin nearby – as in just a few miles from home – so’s that I could feign illness, avoid the city, get most of my conference money refunded, and sneak off to a cabin in the woods. Heck, my husband arranged his schedule to be off tomorrow so he can be with the boyChild and the critters. I might as well not let him down. I could pretend to go to the bigCity, and instead, I could go off by my introverted self and sleep-in, read books, write books, watch movies, pace the floor, and eat meals without having to fetch anyone ketchup or water or meat.
How: By the grace of God and a handful of horse tranquilizers. Kidding. Well, partly. Prayer, I need prayer, people. This agoraphobic country gal doesn’t fancy the bigCity. It’s like clowns on steroids carrying dolls laden with door handle germs. Gah! There are a lot of reasons why I live in the woods at the end of a dirt road in the woods in solitude in the woods. The woods!
* As a noteworthy side note, this will be the first time in over a decade (deca – as in 10, yep, 10 years) that I have slept away from home without my husband and/or my son. I like my home. I like being home. I like the woods. Oh, sure, my son and husband have galavanted about the state without me, but not I, without them. (insert buttock to brain shivers)
* * Also, my mom (gee, thanks) pointed out that she’s nevah, evah heard of anyone staying in that particular campground in the wintertime (because ya know, it’s still winter here with temps in the 20’s at night). “Does the cabin even have heat?” she asked last night on the phone.
I reckon if it doesn’t, my mason jars filled with homemade, turbo coffee drinks will be popsicles in glass, my head will sport frozen strands of matted, braided brown hair, and that darn-blasted scratchy wool blanket will be appreciated, even if it’s still despised for its itchy qualities.
My son just walked in and asked if I was really gonna go to the city.
“I think so, buddy,” I said.
“Oh ga-reat. What am I supposed to do with daddy for two days?”
“Let him out to pee after he eats, drinks, and plays.”
“No, I mean daddy, not your puppy.”
“Son, I meant daddy and my puppy.”
In case you’re wondering, I’m not wearing a skirt or even my cowboy boots this time. I’m gonna sport my Carharrt jeans and my big, black Danner boots. A country girl’s gotta be ready to flee the scene in case the bigCity tries to swallow her. Run, run, run, as fast as you can – back home to your wooded wonderland.