Marrying George Clooney

friday.
anniversary weekend.
17 years.
holy crap.
17 years.
like that. faster than a speeding bullet.
this is the first time in 17 years that my husband did not, i repeat did not, misplace his wallet and or his cellphone, or the car.
this is the first time that he didn’t do his wallet nutdance: “HOLY SHIT, IT’S GONE, DID YOU SEE IT? DID YOU SEE IT? OH MY FUCKING GOD, I CAN’T FIND MY WALLET… MAYBE IT’S IN THE GARBAGE. IT WAS HERE, NOW IT’S GONE, NOW. IT’S. GONE.”
none of that on my “anniversary … about to get in a car and go to the airport and board a plane so we can go and visit our friends” anniversary weekend.
none of that.
a great fucking start.
and no fighting in the car.
none.
not one “fuck you, no no no no fuck you.”
and then, then, we made out in the parking lot at stewart airport after we parked our car — get this — 4 feet away from the terminal.
no lost wallet. no fighting in the car. making out, with yes, a little copping a feel, and… cherry… perfect parking spot.

i am so fucking suspicious, you have no idea.
i will spend the rest of my anniversary weekend looking for clues. and i will find none.
none.
and you wanna know why?
because ken & i promised each other that this weekend, the 17th year weekend, would be filled with joy and love and SEX AND laughter and good food and SEX, and good friends and tons of wine, and QUIET CHATTER.
and i have a sneaking suspicion (yep, there it is… the suspicion) that we will wish for the good old days, you know, the fuck you, thank you so much days.
because they always, always led to great, hot passionate sex.
on MAP QUEST, that’s called “the shorter route” which by the way, always leads to the same destination.

day one. check.