Flying Solo

Eleven weeks and counting. Junebug will make his or her arrival in eleven short weeks. Am I ready? You bet! Am I prepared? Not in the least. Our house is without walls, floors, countertops and just about everything. A network of wires, plumbing and support beams are crudely exposed like a trauma patient on an operating table. When are the contractors gonna sew this project up? It's been rather quiet over there, too. Something about awaiting permits. My baby isn't going to wait on any permits before it arrives on the scene and all I know is, in eleven weeks, I better be perched in my new bed, in my new bedroom, in my new house with Junebug on one arm and my man on the other.

My husband is gone for the week to write songs in Nashville with country artists. This sort of trip is so far removed from his womanizing, misogynistic "Guy Fantasy" persona. I wonder if it will be difficult for him to switch creative gears so he can write those sappy "Honey, I love you and the kids and America" songs. I imagine him sitting in a room with some God-fearing, meat & three snacking, oversized (and successful) Nashville songwriter pondering a line to follow...

"When you walked away, baby
I knew that kinda love
was sent by the good Lord
from the heavens above..."

Guy's next line would most likely be...

"but my God is whiskey
in the jigger in my hand
and when it's empty I'll go join the band
at the edge of the stage, right next to the pole
where I can catch a glimpse of Bunny's sexy mole..."

Hee, hee.

I join him in a week and we'll drive to Kentucky to visit family for the Fourth of July. I'm thrilled about the trip but not the impending meals so I'm currently stocking up on all sorts of snacks to get me, Junebug, and hubby through. (Cue banjo music here.)