The “Conference”

Hubs is gone this week, because he’s at a conference for work.

A “conference.”

He told us that he and his business partner were leaving the first week in May for a conference on firewalls and computer security systems, and blah blah blah… such a boring conference.

And then he said that it was in Miami.

And that’s when I knew he and his business partner were just going to Florida for some good barbecue and bottles of Corona on the beach, with lime wedges shoved in them.  They were going for the quiet hotel rooms.  They were each getting their own room, with room service and the sound of ocean waves right outside their seventh floor balconies.  Neither one of them would have to say, for an entire week, “Would you just BRUSH YOUR DANG TEETH, WITHOUT SPITTING TOOTHPASTE FOR NINE YARDS ACROSS THE BATHROOM SINK?” or even “WHAT IS THIS ON THE WALL?  A BOOGER?  USE A KLEENEX FOR YOUR BOOGERS!!”  Instead… ocean waves… fresh sheets daily… chocolates on their pillows… not a single soul in the room with you, to interrupt televised hockey playoffs.  You can’t tell me that this isn’t a dream that every parent of small children has.

In other words, Hubs has been livin’ the dream this week.  I know this to be true, because when I called him, he said, “Just a second, honey…” before he continued, in a muffled tone to someone else… “That was two of those pineapple drinks with the rum, and I want an umbrella in mine, and could you bring me some sunscreen, too?”  And then, when he got back on the phone with me, he said, “These conferences!  Can’t get a bottle of water to save your life and nobody knows how to turn the air conditioning higher in this convention center.”

Meanwhile, back at the landlocked ranch, I was home from work today with the six-year-old, who has pink eye and couldn’t go to school.  Pink eye isn’t really a sickness, so he’s not laying in bed, being all cuddly.  He’s been all over the house, building train tracks and jumping off furniture and dropping paper airplanes over the stair railing and showing me that the terrible twos were FLAT OUT NOTHING when it comes to a temper tantrum, because HERE ARE THE SCREAMING SIXES, AND I DON’T WANT THAT BOWL OF OATMEAL YOU MADE ME FOR BREAKFAST.  Clearly, we had a level 400 reaction to a level 3 situation.

If that wasn’t enough, the cat puked on the living room floor, while I was unloading our dishwasher this morning.  And by puked, I mean she apparently binged at an all-you-can-eat Meow Mix buffet and then let it churn and digest for a few hours, before she put her best dramatic skills in action, gagged and hacked and sputtered, and threw up a puddle the size of a basketball with a giant wad of hair the size of a mouse, dead center.

Naturally, I used all of my maturity and texted a picture of it to Hubs, and said, “I hope you’re enjoying your CONFERENCE.  I have THIS… and pink eye.”

He texted me back and said, “Don’t send me gross pictures like that.  I almost dropped my pineapple and mango skewer out of my drink, straight into the sand.”

And then, while I was downstairs switching loads of laundry, I came upstairs to find Thing 2, diligently working at the desk in his bedroom… pounding staples into a battery.  When I asked him what on earth he was thinking, he replied, “I was thinking about seeing what’s inside of batteries, but the staples aren’t working that great.”  Honestly, HOW do little boys make it to adulthood?

While I was folding that load of laundry on my bed in my room, Thing 2 walked by and announced, “Well… I decorated my room up nicely.”  Lord, be near.  Guide me beside the still waters and maketh me lie in the green pastures, as I go see what he has done now.  Decorating his room up nicely involved smacking twenty-one Star Wars stickers onto his dresser.  His real wood dresser.  His nice dresser.  We got a lesson today called SOMETIMES STICKERS ARE FOR LIFE, AND THEIR LIVES ARE BEST NOT LIVED ON A PIECE OF GOOD FURNITURE, UNLESS YOU WANT YOUR MOTHER TO BECOME A DAY DRINKER.

To make matters worse, Hubs’ business partner’s wife (Did you stay with me there?), who is at home with their five children, while her husband is sitting on the beach at a conference in Miami, texted me to say that her dryer died dead.  I don’t know about you, but a dead dryer in a family of seven is a crisis the likes of which we need to pray over and lift up to Jesus.  I texted her back and told her that the Lord would want her to drive straight to Home Depot and charge an in-stock dryer to the credit card, and ask someone to deliver it, without delay, that afternoon.

In other words… you know… things are pretty low-key and normal here in Small Town, USA, while our husbands are in Miami, at a “conference.”

All the blesses.

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