Jim had to go out of town last week. This was the third trip in six weeks, and I’m over it. This one was some kind of convention or something in San Francisco. He stayed in a luxury hotel right downtown. We talked about the suitcase to take, the amount of cash he needed, and cabs vs. renting a car. It also occurred to me that 30,000 geeks in one location might look like fish in a barrel to the Working Girl. It seemed prudent to warn him against pretty girls talking to him for no reason.
The morning he left, he kept texting me that his flight was delayed. That always happens because United sucks. But when I flipped on the tv to
catch some Judge Judy watch the news like a responsible adult, I saw there had been a huge earthquake in the Bay Area.
He apparently settled in to the $700-a-night-hotel life pretty easily, because the next thing I knew, he was complaining his shuttle was 10 minutes late to take him to the convention center.
Later that night, he called and regaled us with tales of the $55 Kobe Beef Steak Sandwich he had for lunch, and the thickness of the Complimentary Egyptian Cotton Bathrobes.
Suddenly my much-anticipated midnight snack of Honey Smacks seemed inadequate.
We survived, just like we always do. We went berry picking, sewed recycled t-shirt skirts, and I continued the kids’ education in Cleaning Stuff While Mom Hollers Instructions From the Couch.