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And the ‘Selfless Humanitarian Husband / Homeowner of the Year’ Award Goes to…

It’s the blog of the world as we know it… and I feel fine.

Hey again. (Or for you old-skool IMers and MUDders and such: ‘re-hi’. That’s not in play any more, is it? Haven’t seen good old ‘re-hi’ in a while, now.)

Anyway, sorry that yesterday’s (now today’s) drivel is so late in coming. I’m just positive that you’ve been unable to get anything done, just sitting on this site clicking ‘Reload’ time after time, saying, ‘Where’s Sunday’s crap? I want my inane blather, damn it!‘ No, really, I’m sure you have. Really. See, look, I’ll check the logs. See? Oh, wait. You haven’t. There’s like three hits so far today. Poopstain!

All right, so maybe you haven’t been obsessively looking for the next post. You’re probably out there obsessively doing other things to keep your mind away from this temporary void in your life — washing your hands over and over, or catatonically rocking back and forth, or maniacally giggling at nothing at all while you claw at your skin to get the spiders off. Hey, whatever gets you through the day. But fear not, friends and psychos — Sunday’s post hath arrived. Or arrivethed. Or something. Shit, just keep reading, all right?

So, I’ve got a good excuse for writing Sunday’s entry nearly twelve hours late.

(Nobody cares, of course, or even holds me to the once-a-day posting regimen, but I’ve got a good excuse for once in my life, and you’re gonna hear it, dammit! Er, read it, anyway. Whatever.)

My excuse is that I was exhausted yesterday. Tired. Beat. All tuckered out. See, I spent the two and a half days before Saturday afternoon working like mad to help get the place ready for our little soiree that day. I shopped and I cleaned and I mowed and I swept. I clipped and I pruned. I washed and I folded. I straightened and vacuumed and tidied and bagged. It was all very draining, let me tell you. And, oh yeah, then I stayed up until five am on Saturday morning writing Friday’s and Saturday’s posts. But I’m sure that had nothing to do with it. Nah.

Anyway, I sat around like a slug yesterday. Yeah, yeah, I know — but really, even more like a slug yesterday, if you can wrap your brain around that. I ate and I watched TV. That was about it for the fourteen hours or so that I could manage to keep my eyelids stretched open. And I only did those things out of necessity, mind you — I would have been perfectly happy to just lie in bed, comatose and drooling, until it was happy happy sleep time again. But that wasn’t an option — for one thing, we have so much frickin’ food left from the party that if we don’t eat it, there’s a fair chance that it’s going to cast off its refrigerated chains and rise up against us. Seriously. We’ve got enough pasta and potato salad to paper our walls with, and the freezer is stuffed to the bursting point with bratwurst, chicken, and burgers.

(Oh, the burgers. We’ve got enough ground beef to sculpt a lifesize model cow. There’d probably even be meat left over — we could craft a whole diorama, with a bull and a cowboy rider, complete with a beefy clown and a barrel for him to hide in. We could put in the back yard — a veritable ‘Salmonella Rodeo‘, and wait for the sun to slow-cook it for us over the next week or so. And whatever the birds don’t take, we’ll eat next weekend. It’ll be cool. We’ll throw it on some bread, with some pickles and mustard — that’ll mask whatever rancidity has developed by then. And we’ll scrape off any bird poop before we eat it, of course. C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’ll have another party for it — the ‘Eat Our Sun-Drenched Cowboy Meat’ bash. It’ll be posh. No, really.)

And the beer — don’t get me started about the beer. Right now our fridge has a Tupperware bowl full of leftovers, a half-empty bottle of margarita mix, and beer. That’s about it. That’s all that’ll frickin’ fit right now. We must have four and a half cases shoved into that thing. I’m gonna be pouring beer on my cereal for the next three weeks, just to get rid of it. We’ll cook with beer, and put it in the dog’s water dish, and bathe in the stuff, if we have to. (Or at least, if I can talk my wife into it. I’ll keep you posted.)

So, clearly, I had to contribute to the eating yesterday. I would have preferred a bedside IV at that point, but if you’ve ever tried to squish ground beef into an intravenous tube, you know how messy and frustrating that can be.

(Plus, it feels creepy as it oozes into your arm. I really can’t recommend it, as cool as it sounds.)

And, since we have TiVo, I was also obligated to help out with the television watching. The thing is awesome, truly a life-changing masterpiece of technology. But if you have a small hard drive (and yes, I really mean ‘hard drive’ when I say ‘hard drive’, ya perverts — this time, anyway), then you really can’t go more than a day or so without watching your saved shows, or they’ll start to wink out of existence to make room for new ones. So we gobbled down a couple of Faking It episodes over lunch, and I munched on a between-meals Simpsons. We gorged ourselves on some sitcoms over dinner, and now we’re back to a manageable list of ‘Now Playing’ shows. Whew!

But what I’ve just described to you is about all that I was good for yesterday. Apparently — and there’s hell to pay if this shit is really true — but apparently, I’m not as young as I used to be. Dammit! I don’t know when the hell this happened, but it’s really starting to piss me off. It seems that I’m no longer able to grill and eat and party for eight hours after two days of preparation and a near all-nighter, and then just pop out of bed the next morning ready to go again. I might as well just get fitted for the dentures and Depends now, folks, because what else is there in life? What has become of me? Wanton hedonistic youth, why hast thou forsaken me?

All right, that’s enough of that. So, I’m old. Tough shit, right? At least I can still drink beer from my sippy cup and gum my burgers and brats on the day of the party. Even if it does wipe me out the next day. So life’s not all bad. And I’m feeling much better now. Maybe not good enough for lampshade-headed debauchery just yet, but soon, my friends. Very soon.

In the meantime, I suppose it’s about lunch time, so I’m gonna make another run through the leftovers. Probably some chicken today, with some chips and salad and whatever else looks like it’s going to topple over if someone doesn’t eat it right away. And as soon as I can clear some fridge room, I’m gonna throw the rest of the brats in beer to soak for a day or two. You know, kill two birds with one stone.

(Or two internal organs with one meal, more likely.)

Because I’m all about helping around the house, you understand. I want to do my part, as a loving husband, homeowner and part-time dog-wrangler. So I’ll take one for the team — I’ll go gorge myself on grilled meats, fatty foods, and greasy sides. And I’ll watch the Simpsons and Family Guy while I’m doing it. Just to create more room for my wife’s shows, you understand. Nothing more. And you know what? I’m really feeling responsible and helpful today, so I may just have a couple of beers with lunch while I’m at it. Damn! I should get an award for this! C’mon — how many people out there would sit down and stuff themselves with food and beer and animated comedy like that in the middle of a Monday? Not too damned many, I’d bet. This is Nobel-worthy shit here, folks. See how lucky my wife is? See? See?