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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.

All Kinds of Time, and No Partner in Crime

My wife found out last night that she has to travel this weekend. She’s leaving tomorrow morning, and coming back on Tuesday.

So, I did what any husband in my situation would do: on the way home tonight, I bought a video game to while away the time.

(Hey, don’t give me that look. It was either that, or forty dollars’ worth of porn. And the coin came up ‘tails’, so video game it was, fair and square.

Besides, this is better. It’ll keep me entertained longer, and now I won’t have to re=upholster the couch. Probably. But I’m not making any promises. That’s a long damned weekend we’re talking about.)

Anyway, I’m trying to make the best of it — it’ll be just me and the pooch for the next few days around here. Well, me, the pooch, and the aforementioned new game. I picked out Far Cry, mainly because every review I’ve seen has gushed unabashedly over it. I’m not typically into the sneak-around-and-shoot-’em-up games — I don’t sneak well, and I’m much better at being shot than pulling the trigger myself in these games — but this was just too good to pass up. Or so it sounded; I’ll know for sure in a couple of days.

(For the record, Far Cry just beat out my other target, EA’s NBA Live 2005. They almost got me with Carmelo Anthony — go ‘cuse! — on the cover, but I ultimately decided that the bullshit ‘postdate it with next year’s date to try and seem cutting edge’ annoyed me more. So I didn’t get it. Maybe in January.

Oh, and in the interest of full disclosure, I also paused lingeringly in front of Leisure Suit Larry Magna Cum Laude: Uncut and Uncensored. But then I remembered that I’m not fifteen years old.

And that I don’t really want to have to re-upholster that couch.

And that, even if I did, I’ve still got the internet, which I’ve already paid for this month. So, I went with the shooty game. We’ll see how that decision turns out.)

So, I’m all set for mindless entertainment, to take the place of comfort and companionship and a real, live sweetie in the house. Oh, sure, the dog can fill in for some of the activities — she’s warm under the blanket, and will follow me around the house to see what trouble I’m getting into. But she can’t talk, really, and she’s a lousy kisser. Too much tongue, and not enough lips — way too ‘freestyle’ for me. Plus, her breath smells like horse carcass and peanut butter. And those are not ‘two great tastes that taste great together’. Trust me on this one, folks.

Eh. maybe I’ll be all right. If my lingering cold is any indication, I might just while away the whole weekend in a comfortable NyQuil haze. Nothing like sleeping for eighteen hours at a time to make the days whiz by, right?

Short of that, though, it’s gonna be awfully lonely around the old homestead until mid-week next week. So if any of you WTHWI-keteers — try saying that three times fast! — have any advice, or words of encouragement, or tasteful naked pictures of yourself (gents, I am so not talking to you here) that you’d like to send along, that would be peachy. I’ll check in tomorrow, after I’ve slept off another dose of NyQuil, seen my honey off to the airport, and given the new game a whirl. Let the weekend commence!