No Basement in the Alamo

Bitchy introvert that I am, girls trips are not really my jam.  Simply the thought of spending an entire weekend eating, sleeping and touristing with people I don’t live with makes me want to hide in the closet and curl into the fetal position.  Astonishingly, though, there exists a very small percentage of the human population I enjoy traveling with.  Within that small group, there exists an even smaller percentage of the human population willing to travel with the likes of yours truly.

Non-salient detail:  I think ‘Bitchy introvert that I am’ could be my greatest opening phrase to date.  

Here’s a visual pertaining to what I’m trying to say:

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Tonight I’m supposed to be in San Antonio with three people from that itty bitty cross section in the middle.  

Instead, I blog; because last Saturday I spent $100 to put the frequent flier miles I’d used to book the ticket back into my account.  

I’ve given up a weekend with three of my favorite people.  I’ve given up a weekend of not having to drive anyone anywhere.  I’ve given up a weekend of not having to yell at my family to throw their GD trash away.  I’ve given up a weekend of not having to look for a hairbrush (because thing #2 has managed to lose every brush I’ve purchased in the last decade).  AND, I’ve given up my chance to see the basement of the Alamo.  

See what I did there??

I’m giving up all this for a high school dance.  After the trip was booked, I learned my kid was slated to go with a group of friends, on Alamo weekend.  Of course.  

I’m certain these kind of scheduling mishaps only happen to me.  It’s either because I’m really special or the universe hates me.

I’m staying behind because my oldest child, my ninth grade son, is going to his school’s homecoming dance.

Which is totally fucking stupid, because absolutely nothing about this occasion requires my presence.  I’ll be no help in getting ready, because I don’t know how to tie a Windsor knot or put cufflinks on a shirt.

Adding, why the hell did my husband buy a shirt with no effing buttons           

Also adding, if push came to shove, I could probably manage the cufflinks.  Getting the tie on, though, would turn my chin hairs gray.  

And, even though I throw him under the bus a lot, my husband is fully capable of reminding Jerod to brush his teeth and put on deodorant before heading to dinner.  And even if he weren’t, there are other parents involved who would step up to the plate and make sure Jerod was presentable.  And I would guess that, by evening’s end, there will be 1,012 photos commemorating this blessed event.  

I am absolutely nonessential in this scenario, and there will likely be plenty of other dances in the next four years.  And based on what you read here, you could easily deduce I don’t even like my kids that much.  (That’s fake news, by the way, but I can see why you’d think it) And they sure as hell don’t have much use for me.  So why on earth have I given up a weekend of tex-mex enchiladas and margaritas on the river walk?  


I don’t fucking know.

I s’pose It’s possible it’s because I was the most socially awkward out of place hard to love high schoolers I’ve ever known.  So perhaps I’m living vicariously through my son and damn excited to be part of a normal high school event for once in my life.   

Or maybe it’s because four years from tonight, Jerod won’t likely be under my roof.  He actually went on a kinda sorta college visit last weekend.  College?!?!   Granted, it’s on the early side, and the only reason he wanted to go was because it included basketball tickets, but it was a legit college visit.  Even though I realize I’m never going to stop being his mom or stressing over him eating enough vegetables, I have to acknowledge the days of me being an everyday part of his life are numbered.  

Or perhaps it’s because I’m a pathetic loser with no life outside of motherhood.

All I really know is there wasn’t a great choice for me here.  I hemmed and hawed spent two weeks debating with myself about what I should do.  I landed on staying behind to be around for the dance.  And I think I’m glad.  I’d really like a damn enchilada right now though.

I ain’t missin’ you at all, bitches.  Yeah, right.