So Deana got a weekend pass. She went to a friend’s cabin with some of her girlfriends for a weekend of “catching up on their scrapbooking”.

Right.

I mean, that’s a pretense if ever I heard one. I fully expected her to come back with a case of hepatitis-B and a tattoo on her ass. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t encourage that sort of behavior and I wasn’t happy about it, but I love her and if she’s feeling squirrelly, well… I’ll be here when she gets back.

So I had the monkey make me a few pitchers of extra-strong mojitos, hid my tears, and told her to have fun.

Fast forward to Sunday night. What did she actually have when she came back? A big stack of completed scrapbook pages, the makings of a braided rug, and some other crafty crap. Not a single tale of lingerie pillow fights, no bruises, not even a hangover.

I saw the stuff she left with. It was… the raw materials for the stuff she came back with. Unless there’s a service doing crafts for women who want a cover story (hey wait, that’s a good idea), she really spent the weekend, I can barely bring myself to think it, working on crafts.

When did we get so old?