In an unprecedented and bold move, me and hubby are F-ing off work and running away to the beach tomorrow morning. For the week.
Completely irrational: it's nearing the end of the budget process in the state where I live and I should be here, pacing, reading the wires, thinking of more media angles and ways to mobilize my association's members, biting my nails and waiting for news of whether or not the line items that matter to me are appearing in later versions of the bill or if they've found themselves on the cutting room floor, negotiated away for someone's pet project or someone else's motorway.
But, as NadaSurf sings, "aww f*ck it. I'm gonna have a party."
The way I see it, I have less than a week before my life might possibly maybe change forever. I am going to my happy place. I am going to drink beer and eat Thrasher fries and shellfish and butter. I may even get sunburned.
I whispered the plan to my pal and co-worker (also mother of a gorgeous 13-month old girl) and rather than tsk-tsking, here was her response:
Why that sounds like a joyous idea. Here's the plan: my parents have a little camper in a campground in Slower Lower Delaware. Weekends are crazy there, filled with kids and families, but weekdays are sublime. Just us and the retirees. The little camper is cozy, but plenty enough room for hubby and I to work and write and relax. I won't be shirking all responsibilities - there are conference calls to call into and meetings to prepare for, but for the most part, we plan to work on our never-ending book proposal (on a completely unrelated topic) and muse about what life might be like with a maybe baby.
On the way home, we'll stop and pay a visit to our clinic, say hello to Nurse and get trained on how to begin my life as a pincushion.