"Stop it HENRY!!" A story of a weekend "getaway"...

You know, a "getaway" really implies a happy event, a voyage to a fun place where a good time was had by all, right?

;-)

Well, we're dealing with a stacked deck of negative energy here. Why, you ask? Well, we have, for your amusement, what I call The Big 3 working against us:

(1) Mike and I hate to travel. Nothing like starting off strong. :0 We have "Routine Withdrawal Syndrome," (hereinafter "RWS") and a very dire case of it indeed. There is something about not being in my usual happy space doing my usual happy stuff that gets me all agita. This is a term my Italian grandmother uses to describe a state in which one is anxious, antsy, and perhaps a bit wild eyed. That describes me being off routine to a tee. :0

RWS Case in Point:  Mike and I lay despondently side-by-side on an inflated air mattress, trying not to jostle the other by moving and/or breathing too hard.

"What are we doing tomorrow?"

*agonized sigh* "My parents are insisting on taking the kids to that animal preserve. We're going to have to go too."

"Oh. It's like an hour away, right?" *resists the urge to whine*

"YES. And by time it opens and we get there, we'll be coming up against Anne's usual nap time, and she's already WAY overtired."

"Fabulous."

*long suffering sigh*

"Have you seen my hair straightener? If I don't find it, I'll look like Bozo the clown tomorrow."

"Isn't it over there in that pile?"

"No. I had to move that pile to make way for all the clothes Anne is dirtying. Now I can't find it."

"Sorry."

Ugh.

(2) I have all kinds of weird phobias. This isn't exactly the most flattering thing to admit, but it's very, very true, and I address it here so that all of you weird phobia sufferers out there no longer have to suffer alone. ;-) There are things that we don't speak of like Fear of Not Having Bathroom Privacy. You know what I mean. The only bathroom being located right in a main, densely populated household space where PEOPLE WILL KNOW HOW LONG YOU'VE BEEN IN THERE. The very thought makes my heart stop. Then there is the Fear of Having Dirty Sheets. Anything other than dust that my legs have to slip amongst in sheets that aren't mine and my skin crawls. Little pebble things, dirt or otherwise foreign objects? Can't sleep. Or move, for that matter. There is also the Fear of Gross Showers. I'm sensing a dirt-related theme here. #OCD

Freakish Phobia Case in Point: Tiffany is poised to take a shower. As I go to place all of my shower stuff into the stall (all that girly business: shower gel, shampoo and conditioner, razor, yadda) I notice the floor rug/mat in front. I gasp a little bit.

"Oh. There's "stuff" embedded into the rug. What is...Oh God. Can I shake it out anywhere?! No, someone would see me and that would be rude. Can I...oh dear. I can't step on this with bare feet, especially *wet* bare feet, I wouldn't be able to sleep for days. I'm going to have to move it and just step on the bare floor. Which will get the floor wet, but it can't be helped. I'll wipe it up with my towel when I'm done. Uh oh. There's stuff *underneath* the mat too! I'm just going to have to carefully step around...*executes Twister-like movement*"

I nearly killed myself getting out when my feet were wet duplicating this scenario, fyi. Try at your own risk.

(3) We have young children who like to make each other miserable. If there is anything I fear more than having my own routine hacked into pieces it's having the routines of my small children disrupted. My sanity hinges upon a regular nap time and bedtime so that we can have adult fun time. And now we're in someone else's house, and so the children have to sleep in the same room. Where they can talk to and otherwise annoy each other and prevent each other from sleeping. Then they are even crankier and less willing to sleep than ever the next day.

Major.Mew.

Children On the Edge Case in Point: The room Mike and I were staying in was connected to Henry and Anne's room via a vent. 6:15 am Sunday morning we hear:

*high pitched whispering*

*Chorus of "Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes" struck up loudly*

"ANNE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

"Nothing HENRY!"

"ANNE! I'M TRYING TO SLEEP! YOU ARE SO LOUD!"

"Stop it HENRY!"

*high pitched back-and-forth interspersed with lots of acclamations of "Shut up!" and "SSSSTTTTTOOOPPPP!"*

Mike turns to me, air mattress squeaking loudly in his wake: "There is a ban on traveling with the kids for at least the next year."

And let's not even speak of the car ride, I think I'm scarred for life.

But we made it. Last night we collapsed onto our couch, cocktails in hand, and basked in our space and our Sunday night routine. Which is to say watching old episodes of Columbo and drinking. And yammered on about how happy we were to be home. One would have thought we'd been away at a hard labor camp for the past decade. Nope. Gone less than 48 hours.

We're insane.