But it’s weird. I realized that I have not once in all the years B and I have lived together had the house to myself for more than a few hours at a time. Tonight will be the first time I’ll sleep alone in my bed in something like 12 years. Sure, I’ve gone on vacations by myself, but that’s different.
I’ve been feeling uneasy ever since I got back home and it’s mainly because of this.
That's the weather forecast for Chicago. Yikes!
The party is way the hell out in the western suburbs at a place called The Flame,* a place that looks to be more artifact than restaurant. To make up for/cancel out the awful meal B expects to have at The Flame, he has planned to drive into the city tomorrow to meet up with my brother, sister, and my sister’s husband for a meal at one of our favorite Chicago restaurants.
But the weather report just keeps getting more and more ominous. (It's a lot worse now than it was this morning when I checked.) On top of all the snow and sleet, there’s a freakin' Bears playoff game tomorrow, which will only exacerbate any drive from the western suburbs (where tons of Bears fans live) into the city. Add to that the fact that B will be driving a rental car (a compact deathtrap, no doubt) and that he told me he’s forgotten a lot of the intricacies of Chicago’s expressway system. He printed out some Mapquest maps, but still.
The trip into the city to have dinner with my sibs was going to be the one bright spot, but now I hope he doesn’t attempt it. He's an excellent driver, but I worry anyway. And I don't even want to think about the fact that he might get stuck in Chicago longer than the 44 hours he's planned on if the weather deteriorates further. That would send him around the bend.
And here’s another weird thing. B and I are not the kind of couple who feel it necessary to remain in constant contact when we are apart. Are you ready for this? We don’t even have cell phones. Nor did B leave me the phone number of the hotel where he’s staying nor did he take a laptop with him. We're completely incommunicado. I think he’s staying at a Red Roof Inn (classy!), but I’m not sure which suburb it’s in. Does that strike anyone as insane that neither of us thought to sort out these details before we said adios? (How do you like all the mock Spanish I'm throwing around in this post?)
I’m thinking that I should quit blogging about this topic right now, as it’s only making me edgy and paranoid.
According to my friend P, I should be rejoicing in my B-free house and doing fun “me” stuff, but so far all I’ve done is work (yes, on a Saturday—blech), go to the post office, buy a Swiffer (love at first sight, by the way), Swiffer the kitchen floor, and go grocery shopping. A pretty lousy day, really, except for the satisfaction of seeing the kitchen floor looking cleaner than it has in a long time.
I’m thinking, however, that it might be a good idea to order myself a pizza, pour myself a glass of Broken Halo IPA, and watch an episode or two of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Not really "me" things, per se, but about all I'm up for after getting up so early and squandering about two-thirds of the day working.
*Apparently, B spent every Saturday night of his childhood trapped in a steak-or-fish restaurant of The Flame ilk, as the adults pounded back Manhattans and Singapore Slings. And in those days, of course, everyone smoked cigarettes like they were going out of style, which, of course, was great for B's asthma. Happy memories. Not!