If this weekend’s column seems in any way disorganized, it’s my wife’s fault.
If you find questionable punctuation, it’s my wife’s fault.
If you run across any grammar mistakes that make you want to tear up the editorial page, consign it to the trash can and send me an imperious email, it’s my wife’s fault.
And if it seems like I’m blaming my wife for my own inability to pay attention to the rules of acceptable writing, well … you’re right. But I have an excuse. She packed up the car and abandoned me this week.
Before you jump to conclusions, she didn’t leave because she needed to take a break from making sense of my gibberish, thereby keeping me from embarrassing myself through carelessness.
She left because it’s that time of year, again – time for her early spring trip to the beach.
Each year in March, my wife heads to North Carolina’s Outer Banks with a group of friends. She looks forward to the annual trip in the same way our big and excitable dog Rodney looks forward to his daily walks – with a lot of energetic anticipation.
A more paranoid husband might interpret her enthusiasm as an attempt to duck out on her family, if only for a little while.
There might be some truth to that. Then again, she would not have taken our daughter if that were totally the case.
Our daughter is about to finish her freshman year in high school. I guess that makes her old enough to hang out at the beach with her mom’s friends. In any case, her presence on the trip this year is proof that age is no barrier to participation. And I suspect that as long you’re friends with my wife or any member of her posse for that matter, you’d be welcome, too.
However, there is at least one roadblock – testosterone.
You can’t have any.
In other words, no men are allowed, which explains why I stood in our driveway Thursday morning waving goodbye as my wife stepped on the gas and got out of Dodge with our daughter riding shotgun.
They left a little too quickly if you ask me, but I can’t blame them. After a long winter cooped up indoors, I’m looking forward to temporarily abandoning the family soon, too.
I’ve already been in contact with my brother and a couple of friends about what’s becoming an annual spring trout fishing trip to the Blackwater River in Canaan Valley. I have hopes, however misguided, that this is the year I actually reel in something more than a waterlogged stick.
But the point right now is this: our two cats are the only female influences that our dog Rodney, our son and I have this weekend.
Unfortunately, they are not very good editors.
So until my wife gets back from the beach, please excuse the typos.