The actual day that Valentine's falls on this year is little more than afterthought to those who would celebrate it. Sure, there will still be cards passed and boxes of chocolate left to be discovered, and many couples will be turning down the sheets earlier than usual. But the weekend is the best time to celebrate when the holiday falls mid-week. Bigger plans can be made. Relaxed dinners without the stress of a work day. Late night out. More drinks. Possibly even sneaking away for the entire weekend, should you find yourself that lucky.
I made it clear that I hoped for a repeat of last year. Simple really. Hotel room. Jacuzzi bath. Me. Him. Accessories. And lots and lots of loud, fun, deviant sex.
As far as our kids were concerned we were going to be spending the evening in the city dining at an upscale restaurant and staying the night because we didn't want to drink and drive. In reality we were going to be 10 minutes away shacking up and getting down and dirty. Just how I wanted it, too. *sigh.......* It was not to be.
Wisely, I did a quick verbal check-in last week to mention our Valentine's plans. I was leaving the planning to him and I was getting nervous because 1.) he's terrible at any combo of remembering/planning and 2.) I needed these plans to happen like you wouldn't believe, so forgetting was NOT an option. When he stuttered his response about thinking that Valentine's weekend was the following weekend, my high hopes lost their footing for a minute. I regrouped, corrected his misunderstanding, and did the thing I do where I begin calculating the odds of things working out how I'd imagined. Odds were still in my favor. Until Friday.
Our dog has nothing on me when it comes to being alerted by the sounds of someone approaching. I can tell who's in the driveway based on the engine, and I know exactly who is going to walk in the door based solely on the jingle and scrape of their keys as they attempt entry. Imagine my surprise, concern, dismay, and even more concern when I hear Od's keys shortly after lunchtime. He should not be home. Before I can find him I hear the bathroom door being slammed shut. "This is probably not good" I think to myself. And when I see him emerge wearing only half his clothes, a sheen of sweat, and a green complexion as he walks right past me to the kitchen for a glass of water before he heads right back to the bathroom and slams the door again I know for sure my weekend plans went right down the shitter. Along with Od's lunch. And breakfast. And whatever else he'd eaten in the last week, apparently. I mutter an all encompassing "fuuuuuu-uck", then resign myself to new plans. Good thing that room hadn't been booked after all.
I get him squared away in the bedroom, then begin my weekend long damage control. I text daughter to NOT let her boyfriend get dropped off at our house, then promise to make it up to her later. I run errands to the bank, the grocery, and the library after warning the kiddos to save themselves and avoid their dad and that particular bathroom. Upon asking for help with the groceries, daughter informs me she doesn't feel well. This could be due to a myriad of things : she drank too much chocolate milk, has cramps, is tired, would rather avoid having to actually be helpful, or......really doesn't feel well. After grumbling through the grocery unloading with the forced labor of my other teenager I soon found out. She really didn't feel well.
Patient #2 required a bit more hand holding and coddling than the first. While I discouraged her from showering and taking up valuable bathroom time (I was trying to keep things quarantined and one speck of vomit in the hair does not constitute needing a shower) I noticed her phone on the sink. It was on. Puking your guts out does not mandate a need to abandon a conversation, it seems. I took a moment to discuss the inappropriateness of phones in the bathroom - EVER - to her. The things that poor boy must have heard over the phone.
I quickly moved on from silently lamenting my lack of sexy weekend plans and went into self defense mode. I battened down in the t.v. room with my laptop, some DVDs, and snacks. I would have slept in there if sleep was possible on the lumpy beast that serves as our couch. I held off until 4 a.m. before I cautiously crawled into bed fully clothed and facing away from Od.
Lysol wipes, Oust, and Clorox were my best friends this past weekend. My only Valentine action so far was Sunday, playing chaperone to my daughter and her boyfriend as I took them out to eat and to the movies to make up for their lost plans on Friday. Daughter snapped back to health like only kids can while Od is still suffering and hanging onto his intestinal misery like only he can.
Late last night I was weighing the odds again in my head of maybe attempting some semblance of a date on Tuesday night if Od feels any better by then. Any crazy, hot, hotel sex will have to wait for next weekend at the earliest. As I lay in bed and mentally prepped myself for the Monday task of sanitizing the entire house I heard the bathroom door slam down the hall. Patient #3. The kid whose own doctor wouldn't even know him because it's been so long since he's been sick is now sick. Violently. In the bathroom. All night.
It's now Monday and all signs are still good from me. I know I'm probably cursing myself for even typing that sentence. There's probably multiplication and mutation of unwelcome varieties going on inside me right now. Time will tell. I hope I make it out alive.