I'm not happy.

It's not that I'm mad at him. I mean, I can't complain. He keeps me in shoes and not only brings home the bacon but fries it up in the pan, really, really scrumptiously. He's also the fun-maker in our little tribe and he gives me ample time and space to write. So, I shouldn't deny him one weekend of fun.

But, it doesn't mean I have to kick up my heels and dance a friggin' jig for him.

You see, I love wine, too. We are, what you call oenophiles, which means we can drone on and on about wine until people's eyes roll back in their head. It means we can swirl a glass of St. Supery Meritage without spilling a precious drop and it means I want to be in the Valley, too.

Here's the super-duper amount of fun I have in store for the weekend. One of the girls has a winterguard competition in one part of the Tropics. A winterguard is a high school team that dances and twirls things like flags and guns and swords. Not real ones, but they are weighted and once, one of those big boys gave our Winterguard girl, a big, walloping concussion when she forgot to catch her airborne rifle with her hands instead of her forehead. These gun-twirling contests last the whooole day where you sit in a high school gym, packed to the gills with other gun-twirler parents.

Our middle girl has a soccer competition on the other side of the Tropics.

For 2, possibly 3, fun-filled days.

When my fierce, warrior soccer girl was giving me the details, she said enthusiastically, "If we win our hundred matches on Saturday, then we get to play hundreds more on Sunday and if we win those, we'll get to come back for the finals on Monday!"

I muttered something along the lines of, "Dear God, No."

She looked at me with her hopelessly blue eyes and said, "Are you saying you want us to lose?"

I did smile kindly when I said, "Um, yeah, that's what I'm sayin.'"

Oh, I'm also enjoying a house full of guests coming, of course, on Saturday. I've got a dog in diapers, (don't ask), and three daughters who make the Three Little Pigs look like they have OCD.

Oh and then there's the daughter with the lump on her forehead the size of Texas courtesy of her sister's Braveheart imitation. William Wallace still hasn't given me a logical explanation on why she thought it was a good idea to swing a phone charger over her head like a medieval weapon while her sister innocently watched tv directly in the swinging path of the battery.

Good Times.

I want to visit my friends at Robert Biale vineyards and sample their luscious Zinfandels instead of camping out on a bleacher while getting continuously kneed in the spine by a man so large he's required to buy 2 seats on a plane. I want to wander the sparkling wine caves of Schramsberg instead of cheering from my camp chair in the blistering tropical sun for the hundreds of soccer games that my warrior girl and her team are sure to win.

I always forget the sunscreen. Not great for my albino-like skin.

I hope my husband has fun, I really do. To show my good sportiness, I even bought him a Sean John t-shirt with big dice and the words, "Give Me Da' Loot" emblazoned across it. Pretty funny, especially if you know my husband. I had to explain to him who Sean John was.

I'm now sitting here with one hand holding an ice pack on my sobbing daughter's head. The other girl's sobbing her apologies while I try to type. My diapered dog is curled up around me. And my other girl is in my closet. I can hear her. In all moments of distraction like this, someone always takes advantage and swipes a pair of my shoes.

Yep, I can hear her hurried footsteps clacking away as I type. THEY BETTER NOT BE MY NEW COACH SPECTATORS!!!

Hubby, if you're reading, you have one dang, good wife.

Today's Must of a Download: Elvis Presley's "A Little Less Conversation".

First, it's Elvis and the theme IS Vegas. Second and let me quote, "A little less conversation, a little more action. All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me....Open up your heart and satisfy me, baby." This isn't what you might think at all. It means I need the satisfaction of a Cindy's Backstreet Kitchen Campfire Pie. Hubby, I'm talking to you. It means I crave, crave that toasted marshmallow fluff, fudgy gooey pie. It means that when I told you I wanted it, I was serious. I don't care how you get it here, I must have that bit of heaven. When you told me the recipe was online and I could make it, you must have thought for a minute, you were married to someone else.

Campfire Pie, Satisfy Me Baby.