Of the Weekend, and Such

The Husband and I had an interesting "conversation" this morning during breakfast, though I say "conversation" in quotes because our exchange lasted approximately 30 seconds and was about as deep as a baby pool.  

— How often do you feel guilt? I asked him.

— About once a week.  Why?  How often do you feel guilt?

— Maybe four times a day?   

Setting aside any thoughts you might be having about how this mostly indicates my need for medication, guilt might be one of the differences between — I was going to say a man and a woman, but that's not specific enough — a mom and a dad.  

I feel slightly (not very but just a little) guilty that instead of going to Related Arts Curriculum Night at Elder Girleen's school next week, making dinner for the mother of one of Elder Girleen's classmates who just had a baby, attending a School Work Day, answering Michelle Obama's personal email message to me to man the phone banks, visiting Miss Nell next door (eighty years old and extremely lonely),  I am going off to the Hambidge Center for Artists, where, I imagine, for ten days I'll sleep, walk in the woods, read, research and — god willing — write 7-10 pages a day on my novel.  

But do I feel guilty enough not to go? Not just no, but hell, no.  

Tidbits I've gleaned from typing "Hambidge Center" into Google (or "The Google" as my mom referred to it the other day):  

That the vegetarian dinners the artists there gather for each week night are very very good.  

That it's possibly haunted.

That bear have been seen.  And mice.  (The former outside the studios, the latter inside).  

Though I know home will tug at me every moment I'm there, I'm also as excited as if I were going to Disneyworld.  Actually more so, since I'm extremely disinterested in ever setting foot in Disneyworld.

But because it would be helpful to my loved ones left at home* if before I go I get caught up on the laundry and stock the house with enough food to last a midwestern winter, this entry probably the last you'll hear from me for a few weeks.

But because reading columns in the New York Times by Judith Warner has lately turned my morning coffee-drinking into an even more delicious experience than it usually is , I leave you with her latest, here.  

What with the way politics hangs like a dark cloud on the horizon these days, we all need a reason to laugh.    

*Or because I think it would be helpful to my loved ones left at home.