Longest Week of My Life

It should have been a no brainer when I answered the phone last Friday and it was a gal pal bawling about her boyfriend dumping her over the phone. I should have said, "No habla Ingles!" and hung up. But no; I listened and my heart was so sad that I said, foolishly, "You need a change of environment. Why not come here for a day or two?"

She left today. Six days later.

During this week, she didn't bathe for five days. She cried for six. Seriously. When we picked her up from the airport she was bawling. When we dropped her off, she was still bawling. Her crying could be heard To The Barn. Even Clara, who is the most empathetic gal, was begging us to take her somewhere and set her out, just so she could have a break. I wouldn't take her, I replied, unless I got to stay, too.

She refused to eat more than a few bites a day. She left food all over the house That She Didn't Eat.

Her responses to any question was through clenched teeth and were monosyllabic grunts. She never said thank you, kiss my foot, or thanks for the memories, even when we set her out at the airport. And, yes, I did stop at the departure door and didn't throw her out as I threatened to the Mister in whispers last night.

After we set her out (okay, I confess, I did burn rubber just a bit) the Mister and I rode along in silence for thirty minutes. Then, he looked at me and smiled, "Nicest thirty minutes this week!" I giggled. "Okay, if I told you that when I lay down on Wednesday that I may have whispered to God 'if I die tonight, it's okay -- at least the pain will stop' would you think it was terrible?" He burst out laughing and laughed until tears rolled down his face.

"How about a milkshake? I think we have earned it." And no one cried All the Way Home.

Moral: No good deed goes unpunished.