Sometimes my husband is an ass. And sometimes he isn't.

After yesterday's long evil afternoon involving no naps (Isaac, Vivian) and several melt-downs (me), I decided that I should take the advice that all my friends, bloggers and non-bloggers alike, have been giving me: I'm going on vacation.

When Lance came home last evening, I told him I was at the breaking point, and that I would be checking into a local hotel for the weekend. Surprisingly, he didn't balk. He said, "Sounds like a great idea, babe. You need it."

This morning, before I had gotten around to finding an inexpensive hotel around town, he emailed me to say he'd booked me a room at a 4 star hotel a few miles out of town. My mother-in-law is taking the children tomorrow at noon for the night, Lance and I are going out to dinner at our favorite restaurant, and then Saturday I am driving away to sit in a beautiful hotel room where someone else will make my bed, clean my bathroom, and bring my food. I will not have to lift a finger for ANYONE. I will not have to do anything unless I want to. I can read trashy magazines or watch bad movies on pay per view. I can walk on the beach, or read an actual novel. I can take a shower that lasts longer than 3 minutes. I can blow dry my hair. I can eat chocolate for dinner--or go out to a fancy restaurant BY MYSELF and actually take longer than 10 minutes to shovel the food in my face. I can sleep in for TWO MORNINGS in a row. I don't have to get up in the night for any reason unless I want to.

I think I may even take some time to go shopping, so I have something presentable to wear for all the holiday functions. But maybe not. I don't usually like to shop. It doesn't matter, I don't have to decide now. I have all Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday to decide.

I just wish it was Friday at noon right now.