the private jet

In the middle of the night I heard Matt's phone. This morning I asked who called. He checked it. Get this, he said. Jimmy (name not real) says that he might be able to get his hands on a private jet and if so, are we game for a quick trip to Nashville to see him play. We'd be back by Sunday.

I had several reactions. Let's list them in no particular order.

1. Nashville???!!!

2. Private Jet + Nashville = WRONG

3. Are the kids invited? Whaaa? Kids shouldn't be allowed on a private jet, should they? Not by      Hollywood's definition. Champagne and creamy upholstery. Beyonce and huge sunglasses. But of course, if we are having this exciting experience I would want the ruggers right there with me. Don't even get me started on the heartache that descends when traveling w/out children, which is, my beloved will be orphaned when the jet to Nashville(?) crashes. I just assume I'll die once I leave the city limits. Strange, but very true.

4. Nashville? Really. I've been to Nashville. It's fine. Let's try something jet appropriate, please. Barbados. Cannes. Cyprus. Paris. London? We can stay domestic even. New York. San Fran. Palm Beach. I'm just throwin' out ideas, OK? Nashville?

5. What does one wear on this jet? To Nashville. You know of my dilemma. It'll have to be jeans. And a white shirt.

6. Nashville is in Tennessee. Just to be clear.

7. And then my final thought, which arrived about 2 seconds after Matt read me the text... I ain't going to Nashville! BUT I am seriously honored that someone is bandying about the very thought of picking me up in a private jet and flying me anywhere. Even Nashville.

I'll hold this thought close this weekend as I clean the boy's bathroom, fix the 8oth meal of the day, clean out my car, haul wood, build fires, wash dishes, fold laundry, you know the drill.

Private jet. Private jet. Private jet. Private jet.....