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Halfway to Hermitville

Boy, there’s nothing like having the wife out of town for a few days to disabuse me of any notions I might have that she’s holding me back from some sort of ‘rock star’ lifestyle.

Not that I ever had any of those notions, of course. I’ve known for years that she’s pretty much the only reason I’m able to live and work among other humans. On my own, I’d revert to an unshaven, drooling, filthy outcast, shunned by society and pointed at by small children.

The really amazing thing is that the reversion apparently only takes about a day to kick in. Looks like the fine line is even thinner than I thought. Peachy.

Anyway, I’ve been on my own for about thirty-six hours now. I drove my wife to the airport yesterday morning. Since then, I have:

• played approximately ten hours of video games (and plan on a couple more tonight)
• run out of NyQuil, after slurping down the last dose last night
• eaten three frozen dinners and two microwave burritos
• snacked on nuts that I extracted from their shells using, at various times, a cutting board, a rolling pin, a corkscrew, and my teeth — I am the MacGyver of filberts, dammit
• slept for nine hours
• woken up to find drooly cough drop residue on my pillow… twice
• watched thirteen hours of football — four college, nine pro so far — and counting
• left the house exactly twice — once to buy camcorder tapes (and another video game), and again to walk the dog and take out the trash (hey, I did get something useful accomplished)

On the other hand, in the past thirty-six hours, I have not:

• made the bed
• done any laundry
• shopped for groceries (even though I’m down to one frozen dinner!)
• shaved
• written an entry for Saturday
• gone to the Patriots game tonight, because I’m still sick (see, I can still make some judgement calls)
• gotten stoned with a grungy roadie, snorted cocaine off a hooker’s back, traded tequila shots — or fashion tips, or spit — with Courtney Love, or anything else that might qualify as remotely ‘rock star’

Clearly, I’m not qualified to be on my own, folks. I’m barely qualified to zip my own pants at this point.

(And hey, look — I’m wearing sweats. No zipper on those puppies. So there’s one less thing to worry about, anyway.)

Ah, well. I suppose it could be worse. At least I’ve got the dog to keep me company. And to lick that stuff off my pillow. And slurp the dishes clean, so I don’t have to decipher the dishwasher. And all in return for a pat on the head, an occasional walk, and all the Snausages she can eat. Pretty sweet deal for both of us, if you ask me.

Of course, the really important thing to know is that in another thirty-six hours or so, my wife will be back, and I’ll be back to normal. Or ‘tolerable’. Would you believe ‘passable’? ‘Marginally presentable’? How about ‘still annoying as hell but not quite as ass-kick-worthy’? Any of the above? Meh.

Whatever. I’m going back to watching football and playing video games. I’ve made it halfway through this little odyssey, and I’m gonna try getting through the rest of it the same way. I just hope my joystick thumbs and frozen burrito supply hold up. Until Tuesday, that’s about all I’ve got. Catch you later, folks.