Book Club And Other Selfish Endeavors

I started a book club last year, so I could share my love of reading with other women. HA motherfucking HA! I needed an excuse to get out of my house and drink without going to a bar or giving my husband any indication that I am trying to run away. I’m trying to run away. I also meet my sister once a month for cocktails and dinner, my mom once a month for coffee and numerous friends for dinner when I feel I may be close to a mental breakdown. Before I had kids, my life revolved around me. I worked and spent my free time shopping, tanning, sleeping and hanging out with friends. When I got married I loved hanging out with my hubby because it was new and I hadn’t washed his underwear or smelled his farts for an entire decade. Then we added two kids into the mix. I love my kids and I love spending time with them. I also must admit that I need to run away from them once in awhile in order to be the great mom they both deserve. Reading snake books, playing swords, painting nails, combing hair and cutting another human beings meat can be a bit taxing on the soul. I need to run away.

My husband doesn’t spend as much time trying to get away from us and that makes me feel guilty sometimes. He likes being around us every night and every weekend and every vacation and….yeah I’m a dick. There have been a handful of times when we have left him home alone or I’ve forced him to call a friend and get the fuck out of the house for a couple hours. He always misses us or comes home early.  I am coming to realize that perhaps he doesn’t feel the need to rip his hair out, guzzle a bottle of wine and take selfies in a bar bathroom. Yeah, I’m not proud of some of this shit.

I am a perfectionist. Which explains why after an entire week of not screaming, not spanking, and not punching a wall that I would need to blow off some steam. Being good for everyone pushes me to the edge and  if I didn’t have the option of getting the fuck out, I would need Xanax or a straight jacket. Or both. I feel guilty when my kids cry and attach themselves to my leg as I am sprinting to the car. I feel guilty that my husband feeds them ramen noodles and Pop Tarts for dinner and that no one fills up the dogs water dish. I feel guilty when I get back and my house smells like a nauseating mix of sewer water and burnt popcorn. Then I wake up the next morning. Once again, I am ready to chauffeur these midgets around town and make a dozen peanut butter sandwiches. Yeah, I needed that.