A Jersey Girl in Texas

 

The first thing I did after breakfast on Saturday was walk into a store I never heard of (Bass Pro), turn left, and shock to see a whole rack of rifles on the wall. I said to myself, “Girl, we’re not in Kansas anymore.” But that wasn’t as much of a surprise as the “Please take a ticket” machine on the counter . . . as if buying a rifle is as popular and usual as buying sliced ham and provolone at a deli on Saturday.

 

But I’m tough. I like a good cultural adventure. Like the tribulations of figuring out how to pump my own dang gas (yes, it’s true . . . Jersey girls don’t pump). Or being called Ma’am (good God, really?), or the confusion of being regularly interrupted from my thoughts and about three steps ahead before I realize some friendly someone is trying to chat with me for no apparent reason except that that’s what they seem to do down south. 

 

But Texas it was for our girl’s weekend away. Which was fabulous. We did all the things married girls with kids do when they get away on their own . . . eat too much, drink too much (in my case, coffee), and chat, talk, laugh, psychoanalyze, philosophize, theologize, and wax lewd about latex and leather until much too late into the night.

 

As much fun as that was, the real boon to the weekend was the time to myself in transit, and my first night at the hotel. I brought my notebook with me and just wrote and wrote. I so covet uninterrupted, quiet time, and I found it in spades. I managed to write a few poems and little half poems, and had time to read, too!

 

Of course, such a great weekend comes at a price. And probably, most of the mommas reading this know exactly what comes next. I come home, still floating high, am greeted by lots of wonderful little hugs and kisses, and a smiling husband . . . then open the door to the house . . . and OH MY GOD WHAT THE HECK HAPPENED IN HERE?!?!?!? Guess what I’ll be doing today?