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Another Few Days of This, and I’ll Look Like the Unabomber

My wife — who didn’t kill me earlier, as I’d feared she might — just told me that I look like someone who hasn’t left the house in a week. Which is, of course, very mean. Mean, and uncalled for, and personally very repugnant.

It’s also one hundred percent true — I do look like someone who hasn’t been out of the house, or probably even off the damned couch, in six or seven days. Now, of course it’s not literally true — that would be ridiculous. We got home from our trip on Monday, and since then… well, I’ve been out of the house not once, but twice! I walked the dog yesterday — all the way out to the front porch, to get the mail — and on Friday night, I stepped out back to see what the dog was doing in the kennel. See? Twice! Where does my wife get off, saying I look like I haven’t been out of the house at all? Sheesh.

On the other hand, I’m sitting here, leaning crookedly on the couch, in a T-shirt and the new warm-up pants that I got for Christmas. It’s part of a suit, but wearing the top and bottom at once make me feel like an off-duty gangster, so I’ve been mixing ’em up. The top with a pair of sweats, the pants with a sweatshirt, or just a tee. So versatile, so stylish. Such a wonderful accessory for my unkempt hair and three-day beard. Mama, is this the ‘high life’?

Anyway, I’m not really sure these are really best called ‘warm-up pants’, but I’m not sure what else to call them. They’re not ‘parachute pants’, certainly.

(And I’ll tell you how I know, in just a minute.)

Together, the ensemble might be a ‘jogging suit’, but the pants alone? ‘Jogging pants’? Doesn’t sound right. So I’m not certain what they should most accurately be called. And thus, I call them ‘warm-up pants’, because that’s what they remind me of.

But really, that’s not what they are, for one very important reason. See, when I think of ‘warm-up pants’, I envision those pants that basketball players wear during shootarounds — you know, the kinds they can grab by the thighs and swoosh right off? They must have velcro or something on the sides, or a cutaway waistband or something. I’m not really sure.

What I am sure of is that these pants I have on are not those kinds of pants. See, I did the experiment today. Right after my shower, I got dressed, and put these pants on right over my boxers. And then, standing right outside the upstairs bathroom door, I grabbed ’em by the front, and tried to yank them off.

Now, folks, I don’t know whether any of you have accidentally thrown yourself down a staircase by your crotch, but that’s essentially how my little experiment ended. The pants didn’t come off, the elastic held, and the two handfuls of fabric went careening toward the stairs, followed by the rest of the pants, and followed then by me, with my big ass bringing up the rear. Bumpity-bumpity-bumpity-thud. Perhaps not my best-planned experiment.

On the other hand, by the time I got to the bottom, one leg had actually come out of the pants. So I thought, ‘what the hell‘, limped back up the steps, and threw myself down again. And this time, they came off completely! Woo hoo! Maybe they are ‘tearaway’ pants, after all, as long as you have a flight or two of stairs handy. I guess they can be ‘warm-up pants’ after all. Cool! As soon as I get my elbow back into joint after that second fall, I can finally write the ‘thank you’ note properly, using just the right term. Oh happy day!

Note: In anticipation of your concern, I should probably confess that the falls above didn’t actually occur as described. No pants, elbows, or goofy writers were actually harmed in the making of this blog entry.

Actually, I put the pants on a blow-up doll, and threw it down the stairs. It just sort of ‘bip-bopped’ down the steps both times; nothing really interesting happened, and the pants stayed firmly on the doll the whole time. Until the dog bit the thing’s nose, anyway. At that point, all bets were off, and there were bits of plastic everywhere. So, to be fair, there was a ‘Naughty Nanette’ inflatable figure harmed really badly in the making of this post. But that’s about it.

Please Tell Me Those Are Chocolate Cupcakes Stuck to the Ceiling

Crap.

My wife said she’d be back ‘after noon’ today. Well, it’s five till, and the house is a stinkin’ pile of wreckliness. The bed’s not made, my clothes are everywhere… there are blankets strewn all over the house like dirty Kleenex, and dirty Kleenex littered around like… well, themselves, I guess. I’ve got magazines in the sink, dirty dishes in the desk drawers, and throw pillows in the dishwasher. There’s still lipstick on the dog, for chrissakes!

(No, not for that, you Saluki-smoochin’ pervert. I don’t go around French-kissing French poodles.

(And don’t even ask me to call them ‘Freedom poodles’ — what the hell does that mean, anyway? And aren’t we over that yet?)

Amyway, I didn’t gussy up the dog’s lips for a makeout session — I just got bored, and wrote stuff on her with it. You know, like ‘This End Up‘ and ‘My Other Dog Is a Cocker Spaniel‘, and a big red fake blood trail leading from her mouth, so we could play Cujo. It’s all perfectly normal. Don’t get your knickers in a twist over it, folks.)

Anyway, the point is that I’ve got to get the place cleaned up before my wife gets home, or she’s gonna kill me. Great sweaty melons, there’s a lot of crap to do!

(How was that? Did you like that one — ‘great sweaty melons‘? That’s one of the new exclamations I”m trying out. Kinda catchy, don’t you think? See, you guys thought I was just saying that I was gonna come up with new shit like that, but oh, no — I went and did it. Eh? Whaddaya think of my resolutions now?

Yeah, okay, don’t answer that, really. Nobody needs to hear that. Ooh, but if this were Family Guy, this would be where the saying gets acted out somehow. Can’t you just see Tony the Tiger opening the door to a Vegas strip club’s dressing room, panning around inside, and then proclaiming, ‘They’re grrrreat!‘ Huh? Yeah?

Which begs the question, of course: ‘Why the hell isn’t this ‘Family Guy’?!‘

Ooh, ooh, and also, ‘What the hell is wrong with me? Have I been smoking my dirty socks again?‘

I’ve got no answer for the first question, I’m afraid. Though to the second, I can reply with a resounding, ‘probably not‘. There are an awful lot of socks tied like streamers on the staircase right now, and another pile of them stuffed in the downstairs toilet. I seriously doubt that I smoked any of them at all last night. None of the wet ones, for sure.)

Anyway, I’d better wrap this up, take a shower, and start to clean up.

(Well, okay, wrap this up, get the frozen waffles out of the tub, then take a shower, and then clean the place up. There’s nothing worse first thing in the… um, afternoon, than getting Eggos squished between your toes. You can’t ‘leggo’ ’em, even if you wanted to, sticky little bastards.)

I’ll be back later, assuming I get things to a point that doesn’t warrant my immediate execution upon my wife’s return. In the meantime, though, I’ve got a lot of work to do. Man, I am never letting my wife go on an overnight trip again. I obviously can’t be trusted alone!

Flying Solo for a Night

I’m on my own tonight. My wife’s off cavorting — or gallavanting, or maybe even merrymaking — with friends in Maine. Some sort of ‘girls night in Maine’ thing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder whether they’d slipped off to Canada for… well, for what, I wouldn’t know, exactly. I mean, I’ve been to Canada myself a few times, but I never went for anything. What do they have up there, anyway? Snow? Mounted police? Grizzly bears? I had a buddy back in grad school who went up every year for the strippers; maybe that’s what the ladies are doing. Maybe they’ve taught grizzlies, or Mounties, or the Mackenzie brothers, to shake their thangs and strip down to their skivvies and beyond.

(Though I frankly don’t see the point, given the subjects. None of those beasts are terribly attractive, for one thing. Seems like a helluva long way to go for that. Plus, all those things are so damned hairy, you’d never know they’d finished taking off their clothes, anyway. Buncha fuzzy-assed half-evolved goobers, anyway.)

But that’s not the point.

(I know, I know — you may wish that naked grizzlies and booty-shaking Canucks were the point, but they’re not. So sorry to disappoint.)

The point is that my wife is in Maine — or in some seedy Canadian weiner joint, but she’s most certainly, definitely not here. And so, I’m all by my lonesome tonight, here in this big old house.

I suppose that, technically, I’m not exactly ‘alone‘, of course. The dog’s with me — she’s sleeping at my feet right now, as a matter of fact. But the fact remains that I’m the only entity in the house tonight with an IQ higher than a block of formica, unless that moldy goop under the fridge has managed to get it together and form a brain. Last I checked, though, it was still buying lottery tickets and watching the WB, so I’m gonna go ahead and say that I’m the only measurably intelligent being here tonight.

(Hey, at least I watch Fox. Nyah!)

Anyway, the important thing is that this is the first time I’ve spent a night here without the wifey present. We just moved into the house in the spring, and she hasn’t taken any trips alone since then. So I’m not quite sure what to do with myself, I’ve got to admit. This is new territory for me, or at least familiar territory in a new environment. Either way, it’s a bit unsettling. Oh, not yet, really — I’m used to being alone here on the weekends from time to time, during the day. I’ve spent my time so far the way I normally would in this situation — piddling with the computer (but not on the computer, as that’s far less practical, and significantly smellier), watching TV, and… um, well, watching more TV. I’ve seen movies, Simpsons, football, and even my beloved Syracuse Orangemen — all in all, a rich, full day of boob tubery. The Panthers-Cowboys game is on now, and that should carry me into MadTV / Saturday Night Live territory, which in turn will see me through until well after midnight.

The problem is — what then? Go sleep in that big, empty bed, in the middle of that wide, empty room, stuck in the corner of that spacious, empty upstairs, in this barren, empty house? Humph. Not likely. Way too creepy, even if I could find my ‘Illuminate-Me-Elmo’ night light and plug it in.

(Which I can’t, because it’s probably packed in a box in the attic, and I am not goin’ up there tonight. That’s just crazy. What do I look like over here, Jamie Lee Curtis circa 1988? Pshaw.)

So, I’m gonna have to find some other ways to occupy my time for a while, until I’m ready to collapse into bed and sleep, no matter what the situation. It’s weird enough not having my wife here tonight to hang out with; I’d have to be exhausted to get to sleep in the bed without her in it, too. It just doesn’t feel right. Oh sure, I can sleep without her in the morning — hell, she goes to work at six a-friggin’-m — but late at night? No. It’s unnatural.

And this being the first time it’s happened in the new house, I’m not sure yet what I’m gonna do. I might stay down here and watch TV, I suppose. There’s probably some good comedy saved on the TiVo that I haven’t watched yet.

(I took care of all the Simpsons, Family Guy, Futurama, Coupling, and Monty Python since coming back, though — being stuck in the house with a cold for six days straight will do that to you.)

On the other hand, maybe I’ll pick out a computer game upstairs and get engrossed in that for a few hours. I could always put together a football team or basketball squad, and take ’em to the title. Or find some sort of strategy puzzler, or a nice shoot-em-up; anything that’s not too creepy or atmospheric. So, Madden NFL — okay. Civilization — cool. Max Payne — um, maybe a little too edgy for tonight. And Evil Dead — oh, my word, no. Good gravy, dude. I’m not goin’ there.

Anyway, I’m sure I’ll find something to do — if all else fails, I’ll work on my standup routine, or shave the dog, or do NyQuil shooters until I pass out. Really, it’ll work out, one way or another. And tomorrow, my sweetie will be back, and things will be back to normal. All I’ve got to do is get through the next sixteen hours or so without going crazy, or accidentally setting fire to anything important. So wish me luck — assuming I make it, I’ll be back with more tomorrow. And if not… well, that goop under the fridge has been bugging me about guest-posting for weeks now. I’m afraid it’s just gonna wanna talk about Felicity reruns and how funny it thinks Steve Harvey is… but hey, if that’s the only one around to post tomorrow, then you’ll just have to live with it. Let’s hope for all our sakes that it doesn’t come to that. That shit doesn’t help anyone.