. . . I would be on the verge of the moment where the heroine meets the love of her life.

How do I know this?

Because I am currently wearing a tiara and a ruffled apron and paying my taxes. This is following hours spent baking brownies and drinking red wine while reading Tina Fey’s highly amusing memoir. Clearly a moment scripted for the entry of the best friend who has always secretly loved me and chooses this poetic moment when I am at my uniquely zaniest to come and appreciate me.

But it is crazily raining so I totally understand if he isn’t up for that today. Especially since we have not yet met. Next time, OK?

So this is what happens when a highly domesticated animal such as myself is let loose into the wild for a weekend every two weeks. Insanity.

I don’t know what to do with myself. I am so used to having people to take care of and watch out for and cook for and clean for and love on . . . that I literally have NO IDEA what to do with myself when left to my own devices.

No. Idea.

I shop. Too much.

I get my nails done. Oooo . . . sparkly.

I eat. A ridiculous amount.

I bake. This is a new, but not positive, direction.

And apparently I dress is zany outfits to convince myself that life is fabulous. And to lure imaginary admirers to me with magnetic weirdness.

Note tiara as evidence.

I love my tiara. It makes me feel royal and amazing and fun. My kids would be super amused that I am wearing it . . . and yet, they are not here. Sniff.

And I love my ruffled apron. (My son thought I said “waffled” when I described it to him. My waffled apron! Ha!)

I love wine and brownies. A lot.

And yet . . . I would much rather have a weekend of my real regular life where I am not on hiatus and trying to entertain myself by doing crazy shit to make it all seem less empty.

There is something so fundamentally weird in the every-other-weekend phenomenon. Like I disappear from view for 2 days . . . poof . . . gone. And then come Sunday night, I’m Baaack!!

But what am I supposed to be doing during hiatus?  I know I should be living my rich and fabulous life. And I am trying . . . really trying. Yay me!

But that doesn’t make it any less weird. And it doesn’t mean I like it.