Vermont Virgin

Hey peoples.  I am currently stranded in Vermont on a week-long business trip.  Don't get me wrong, Vermont is for Lovers.  It's all the things that Vermont is cliche'd to be:  charming, bucolic, quaint, and full of Volvos and LL Bean and maple syrup.

(Okay, I know this is Maine, but you get the idea.)

 There are charming shops and bistros and charming art galleries and charming vintage homes and it all looks a lot like the movie Baby Boom, starring Diane Keaton.  But.  I'm ready to get the hell out of here and get home.  I'm not a great traveler.  I like being alone for a limited amount of time, but I'm used to noise and demands.  Demands for rides, snacks, sex, meals, playdates and gaming. I'm HGTV'd out, and ready to hit the juice.

This morning at 9 a.m. I visited a quaint little local market and purchased a six pack of Diet Coke, Salt and Vinegar chips, and this bottle of wine, (which says "I will not drink bad wine".)  The clerk may or may not have been alarmed.  I looked at her, smiled, and said, "Breakfast of Champions!"  She chuckled uneasily and gave me my receipt.

I had a long day with the hookers, but they are mostly nice and very artsy and creative.  This show is being held in a historic red round barn in Shelburne, and it is GOR-GEOUS.

The inside is a three floor gallery - this is the third floor gallery, pre-show:

Tonight I arrived back at the hotel and decided to hit the hot tub.  I don't know why, but somehow I am always surprised when I see myself in a swimsuit, like "Hey Rosie O'Donnell, what's up?" and then realize it's me.  Shit.  When I go to the hot tub, I'm alone, but after I get in, I catch myself looking at every man who walks in with suspicion, and I have an inner dialogue going on.  An older, portly dude walks in and I'm thinking "Keep moving Jerry Sandusky", or a younger guy walks through and I'm all, "Look away, Ashton Kutcher, you dog."  I tend to assume every guy is a serial killer, and I formulate ways to defend myself and then kill them.

Whoops.  That's the wine talking.

This is my third night in my room, and at first I liked that I'm on the end on the first floor, so I could pull the rental car up outside and walk right inside the hallway and to my room.  However, I've come to realize that the smokers in the building go outside and smoke right outside of my window.  Super.  Now I have to figure out how to defend against and kill them too.  Effing smokers.  Can't you go about giving yourself cancer quietly?  (Sorry Mom.)  (And Dad.)

I'm also seeing a lot of commercials for chocolate.  It's like HGTV knows I'm trapped and have body issues.

We're getting the basement finished right now, and I told the contractor multiple times that I was leaving for Vermont this week, so if you need me to make any decisions, do it now.  Of course, he ignored me, and I've had e-mails and texts and phone calls asking me to pick a bathroom countertop! - pick a French door! - pick the bathroom door! and I sort of want to defend myself against him, but I'm not in killing mode yet.  But if he asks me about flooring or electrical tomorrow, it's over.  I'M IN VERMONT!  YOU HAD THREE WEEKS!  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, MY HUSBAND!?!


Current Husband has done well this week getting three kids coordinated.  (I had to put that in here, he reads this, and now he is probably alarmed about my homicidal tendencies.)


Well, Beavis and Butthead is on MTV and I need to see if it's the same.  This is what my life has become.