more adventures of bad valley

Bad Valley is on her third divorce in New York.
She lives on the 8th floor without windows or an elevator.
She can run up the stairs because she never gained weight because she never got pregnant and she never, ever lived west of the city in the suburbs.
Bad Valley has the names of her most prominent lovers tattooed on the small of her back. However she can’t quite keep track of them all, so she has them sign a guest book on the way out the door. Bad Valley lives next to the bus station. She eats breakfast at 7-11 or Waffle House or Aunt Sarah’s every morning. She eats chocolates and skittles for lunch and has a steak dinner with fried onion rings every night. Bad Valley does not go to bed at a respectable hour. She jay-walks and hitchhikes and goes to midnight movies and after hour clubs. She has a whole different group of friends from dusk to dawn, friends whose last names she never bothers to discover. Bad Valley sleeps in a different bed every night of the week. She does not use a planner. She does not know what day it is or which month, only the season and sometimes the year. Bad Valley runs away with the circus for a month every summer. She is very flexible. Bad Valley does not go home at Christmas and is not sure to call. She does not own flats or sneakers or snow boots. Bad Valley wears flip-flops and heels and impractical clogs. Bad Valley never memorized her social security number and keeps cash wadded up in balls under the mattress and behind the mirror. Bad Valley does not have savings or mastercard or visa. Bad Valley has an endless cash flow from an unknown source. Bad Valley is very, very good at cards. Bad Valley has a poker face. Bad Valley can shoot darts and play pool. Bad Valley gets tips even when she’s not working. Bad Valley has a pocketknife. Bad Valley has a bottle opener on her key chain. Bad Valley has over due library books that she’ll just go ahead and keep. Bad Valley does not adhere enough postage. She signs all of her letters with red lipstick kisses and dots of perfume. Bad Valley lies to the clergy. Bad Valley wrecks automobiles and gets tickets for speeding. But nobody makes Bad Valley pay because she is too beautiful and beguiling. Bad Valley doesn’t use coupons or drive to different grocery stores in search of sales. Bad Valley does not plan the future or think about the past.

introducing my alter ego!

Bad Valley does not want to meet your mother.
Bad Valley doesn’t do windows.
Bad Valley does not take a multi-vitamin.
Bad Valley kisses boys on public transportation.
Bad Valley didn’t write her own vows but if she did, she wouldn’t mean them. Bad Valley only prays for herself. Bad Valley looks for a new apartment when it’s time to clean the house. Bad Valley lets the bills and the laundry and the dishes pile up and then stuffs them all big black garbage bags to be hauled away with the trash. Bad Valley has never filed state income tax. She eats nothing with artificial sweetener and at restaurants she orders cheesecake and French fries. Bad Valley drinks whiskey from the bottle and wine from the jug. She smokes unfiltered cigarettes from a skinny silver cigarette holder that has turned ashy black and is hot to the touch. She chain smokes in nature. Bad Valley never came back to Virginia, never sought a therapist and still speaks trash to her mother. Bad Valley doesn’t attend family reunions, write thank you cards or send wedding gifts. She does not get oil changes or state inspections or update her license plate tags. She never checks beneath the hood. She uses full service at gas station and tips with a kiss.

Where, oh where, is my weekend away?

I am lucky enough to have a room of my own (quite a feat for a 980 sq. foot house that hosts a boy, a man, a crazy girl (me), a dog, a cat and 6 big, fat fish), but I've shared a nook with my 3 year old who has decorated as if he's a drunken painter marooned on a Mardi Gras float.

Not to mention my husband is drawn to my computer like a fly to shit. He can't help himself, God love him, the moniter is BIG and the leather chair is adjustable. And all he has is a shed, a mock-shed addition and a LA-Z-BOY in the living room that offers an endless view of Koi butt.

So. To put it mildly, I have begun to pine for some time to myself. Not an hour. Not an afternoon. Not even a day. A WEEKEND!! A WEEK!! GIVE IT TO ME!!!

OK. I've calmed down a little. But after all this time strapped into my home-work-wife-mother-worker seat like a good little girl I am bursting! Give me an itinerary, a flight time, a roomate, nasty plane food, a map, a visor, a window seat, a destination, a boarding pass!

Of course nobody on God's green earth has kept me home but me. For Chrissakes, I'm a Cancer- I've wanted to stay home the last 9 1/2 years!

But maybe something in me is finally ready to go on that silent retreat, that writer's conference, that yoga/meditation/kundalini/swamibeyondananda getaway.

I spoke with a woman on the phone today who made it sound so easy. She's gone to writer's retreats for weeks at a time-- for the last 8 years. Since her daughter was 1. And she hasn't imploded. She hasn't lost her identity with her baggage. Her husband and child still speak to her. And right now she's on tour with her book.

Maybe I'll start small. Like if there's something for 2 days. In Virginia. That's free.

If you find it, sign me up and tell me where to go.