Challah!

My husband went away for the weekend: Challah!! (When I say “challah” picture me with my hands raised in the air. When I first saw someone do this on tv I thought it was a Jewish thing, praising Allah, but then I wasn’t sure if Allah is a Jewish thing or a Muslim thing, so I figured they were just excited and picked a good Jewish word to express it, kind of like how “phat” became a real word which I still don’t quite get. Then Bianca heard me say it and said, “What? You mean challah like the bread?” so I said, “Yea, I guess so!” and she explained, as she tried to keep from peeing her pants, that what I meant to say was “Holla!” like “holler.” That’s the new thing. I’m sticking with “challah.” Occasionally I’ll say “Challah Bread!” instead, or if I’m extremely jovial, “Challah Bread French Toast!” because that’s my all-time favorite breakfast. But I digress….) So Maverick went away for the weekend, which is fairly unusual as he doesn’t ever travel for work, just works such crazy hours that you never know when he’s going to pop in. Like I can’t ever really relax and when I have the house to myself because at any moment he can walk in to find me watching House Hunters International in the middle of the day, or using his razor to shave my armpits (something which I had successfully hidden from him for over two decades). So you see why I was praising a loaf of bread.

The minute he was gone I started my Staycation by joyously picking up his four pairs of shoe-slippers that he leaves precisely where I will trip over them all around the house, and threw them in the closet. I’m lying. I threw them in the black bag that is waiting to be dumped in the used clothing bin down by the 7-Eleven. Then I continued the celebration by making our bed with nice, tight, hospital corners. I was giddy with the anticipation of knowing they wouldn’t be rudely torn out that night, and that come morning the bed would practically make itself. Furthermore, I wouldn’t have to endure the interrogation over why I’m such a nut about making the bed. Challah! Speaking of bedtime, I could sleep with the tv on a reasonable volume that I wouldn’t have to strain to hear over the sound of snore. (You would be shocked how someone can sleep through their own snore but can be woken but the faint sound of a tv. Or maybe, dear reader, you wouldn’t be shocked at all!)

As Charles spends the majority of his weekends these days, going God Knows Where doing God Knows What, I was pretty much going to have the entire house to myself, not just my bedroom. Which meant that I could run the vacuum as much as I wanted (the hairdryer too!) without someone telling me how irritating that noise is, and by someone I mean Maverick. Challah! But truth be told I wouldn’t need to run the vacuum because my house would stay neat and clean all by itself. Challah Bread!

Quick as a flash I made plans to get together with my divorced girlfriends, basking in the glory of knowing that I could skip out on picking up the dog poo, getting the mail and going food shopping. (I threw a couple of Hamiltons at Charles, and told him to “treat yourself to Five Guys,” but if I know my boy he pocketed the dough and mooched a home-cooked meal at his buddy’s house where, no doubt, my irresponsible ways were the topic of conversation at the dinner table.) Nobody was there to lecture me like usual, when I “forget.” And by nobody, I mean Maverick. After I showered, (using a razor that wasn’t mine, that’s all I’ll say) I blatantly and selfishly took up the entire towel rack just because I could. I left the light on in the bathroom and the closet. I didn’t set the alarm when I left the house, and I parked my car in the middle of my garage when I got home. I didn’t close the blinds when I got undressed for bed because I don’t care if anyone is looking…for god’s sake if they are going to work that hard to to see me from across the highway, beyond the trees, what they see when they finally zoom in will be punishment enough.

The next morning I slept late and stayed in bed to read, even though I had the most restful night of sleep in recent memory. I stayed in my pajamas for hours, made a whole pot of coffee and let several cups go to waste. Challah! When I noticed that there were two plums going bad in the fruit bowl, I threw them down the disposal instead of cutting off the bad part and eating them anyway. Challah Bread! I contemplated doing a load of laundry…just my intimates (something I have never done in my life because it always seemed counterproductive, and because I don’t ever refer to my underwear as “intimates”) for the sole purpose of not emptying the lint trap in the dryer. But as laundry is a heinous chore I opted out, choosing instead to go buy myself a little something. I stepped into the garage and was stopped short–not because I had forgotten my car was parked in the wrong place, but because I had a flat. No Challah.

Shit. I had carelessly tossed away my knowledge of filling tires, checking oil and opening the hood of my car back when I was perfecting the precise placement of the velcro on Huggies, removing splinters, blowing up Swimmies and opening a bottle of wine with my teeth. Rats, no shopping spree for me. To buoy my spirits, and my confidence, I went back inside and proved that I could still open a bottle of wine with my teeth, poured myself a big ol’ glass and was about to get all cozy on the couch when I felt a bit of a chill and thought to turn up the thermostat.

No Challah Bread. One look at that contraption and it was glaringly apparent that I don’t know how to do that either. A strange sensation came over me. Was it the wine or was I missing my Mav? Before I had a moment to consider, there was a ruckus in the driveway followed by some eloquent swearing. Maverick was back! and clearly pissed that I had my car parked in the middle of the garage. Challah Bread French Toast! Wait ’til he sees the flat.