Himself is away for work for a few days, which means Margot and I are enjoying a brief succession of ladies nights. Actually, I prefer to think of them as Ladeez Nites. What kind of mischief do we make for ourselves? I’m so glad you asked:
- We catch up on British telly. Oh yes Downton Abbey, I mean you. Shockingly, my husband is not a fan, so I look forward to these little breaks that let us catch up on all the soapy upper class action. Margot loves a good cut-glass accent.
- We play a lot of fetch. Himself and I play a lot of fetch with Margot anyway, but when it’s just us girls, we play even more because no one is around to observe how badly I throw.* I also derive an unreasonable amount of satisfaction from accidentally throwing her squeaker someplace supposedly irretrievable, then having her prove me wrong.
- I resist the urge to let her sleep in our bed. Long term, I don’t want the dog sleeping in our bed anymore than Himself does. But when it’s still chilly, I’m perpetually cold, and I have the whole bed to myself? Our wiggle-butt pup seems like a perfect compact little heater. Margot plays the role of temptress well too, by frequently proffering her warm belly for rubs.
- I get to leave work on time. Work’s been a little hectic lately, so I relish my 4:30 departure even more than usual, knowing I have to get home and let the dog out.
- I let her snuggle on the couch with me, which is also normally a banned activity.**
- I let myself get scared by the house. We’re still living in a rental, awaiting completion of fire repairs and I find the rental house spooky. It’s much older than our house and makes funny noises. When I’m outside with Margot at night I can all too easily imagine creepy scary things watching me from inside. I have to make myself not look at the windows. Why am I listing this as a guilty pleasure?
- I make mac’n’cheese. As a Real Grown-Up, I have to put kale in it and have brussels sprouts on the side, but it’s still creamy, comforting pasta.
We’re having an exciting time of it.
*I played sports all the way up through grad school, i.e. I’m not a completely uncoordinated muppet. I can throw a rugby ball like nobody’s business. But smaller balls? I’m completely hopeless. It’s like I can’t get my hand to release the ball when my brain says “release you moron!” Totally embarrassing.
**I’m kidding about this one. It’s really more of goofy test to see if Himself is paying attention. Although now he’ll think this is some kind of double bluff. Crap. I swear she wasn’t on the couch!