Like a dream, it has ended.
Our two nights without our two tykes, vanished into a sea of dirty laundry and bedtime routines.
But ah! How sweet were the fruits of our loins…er…freedom.
One of hubby’s adorable sisters, who lives an hour North, volunteered kindly to watch the chillun. She and her hubby, empty nesters, with not a twinge of wistfulness for the diapering grind.
After drive-by drop off, hubby and I immediately release one, long, deep breath. We head straight for Central Kitchen in Cambridge, even though we are both unshowered, grimy, unkempt. We’ll pretend we’re artists, I think, who have just come in from a long day at the studio. Too bad I can’t manufacture paint spatters on my whiffy jeans.
We sidle up to the bar, order martinis, and eat.
A caesar salad with deliciously dense dressing, boquerones and crispy croutons. I’m grateful that hubby hates anchovies, because I eat his.
Then, mussels swimming in white wine and butter. Frites. Oysters. And a creme brûlée, caramelized with the aid of a giant blowtorch at the bar.
I overhear that the bartender/blowtorcher is an expectant father. The Bulgarian woman to my left has no children — yes, I can add “professional eavesdropper” to my LinkedIn profile — yet she dispenses advice without an ounce of comprehension that she might not be equipped to do so.
“Just make sure they don’t rule your life,” she says. “If they cry, let them cry. They will be fiiiiine.”
Hubby takes umbrage. “Just wait till you have your own children,” he chimes in.
On reflection however, my Bulgarian dining neighbor is more palatable than her replacement, who arrives after Ms. Bulgaria leaves, no doubt to tell a dying person how to stay alive. Our new bar mate is a jolly woman from San Francisco, who upon hearing we are flying solo for the weekend, suggests we go out and buy some whipped cream for late-night bedroom hijinks.
Right. Just when we have a clean house, with no-one to tidy up after. Like hell am I going to do an extra load of laundry to rinse off dairy product from our sheets.
And that, my friends, is what I have become. The pleasures of sex will never overcome my practical sensibilities. Although, to be fair, had we been staying in a hotel, I’m sure the ReddiWhip would have been in full squirt.
But what hubby and I did discover this weekend, sans aid of Cool Whip, was that we still could have FUN together.
We stayed up till 2am…blasting favorite tunes from our past…courtesy of PJ Harvey, Talk Talk, Rob Bass and DJ EZ Rock, Kate Bush, Bjork. And from hubby’s playlist…XTC,REM, Pylon, Jonathan Richman.
The next day? Bliss. No early rising. Hubby took run. I painted. And bought a new dress. Leisurely coffee. Quiet. Relaxation. We hit Island Creek Oyster Bar at 4pm. Let the vodka drinking begin. More oysters.
Fried oyster sliders. Lobster roll extraordinaire. Martinis.
slightly obnoxiously tiddly, we make our way to Drink. Early enough to beat the crowds. Good drinks. Yummy fries. But disappointing atmosphere. No music!
Then, home again, home again.
No babysitter fees, curfews, early morning rising, fear of late-night wakings. Just us.
Please sir, can I have some more?