It is times like these, when my wife is out of town that I realize just how much she does for me. I am not one of those guys who expects anyone to do anything for me and I put forth a concerted effort to render aid as I can, but when I am faced with the totality of the normal "to-do" list I admit I find it daunting. Much of the reason for this is that my wife takes care of the things I naturally hate, like leaving the house to buy things and interacting with other human beings.
I don't mind the laundry or the dishes as I can do these things in between everything else that needs to be done, like blog entries and playing Scrabble on Facebook. It is the shopping part that really gets me. Working in retail for 17 years has engendered in me a deep hatred of being in stores of almost any kind and an unending hatred of all consumers. The simple reason is that all people at all stores at all times are idiots.
I confess, I become an idiot myself as soon as I go shopping. Outside of a store, I never stand in the middle of a through-way and pride myself on being aware of the needs of others withing my proximity. In fact, for a big guy, I move pretty fluidly, often avoiding other people and their careless herky-jerky motions. But when I go shopping, especially grocery shopping, I get sidetracked by the fascinating colors and shapes of the boxes and containers and foods around me. It's Disney for fatties.
Usually I stay out of trouble because Emily is there to scold me like a sheep dog keeping the flock in line. Without her, I fear the destruction that will be wrought by my trip to the grocery. Should I call and warn them in advance of my intentions to shop alone at their store?
Maybe they can have a shopping helper their for me so I can just point and grunt and drool while she does the heavy work. at the end, I can just slide my card and go. If I pay a little more, maybe the kind rent-a-bride will help me find my car, so I don't have to join all the other solo husbands wandering the lot clicking the lock buttons on their key fobs hoping to distinguish the sound of their horn chirps from the rest and trying to correct for the wind to triangulate the position of their cars.
What a wonderful service. I think I should start it. It could be called Wayward Husband Intervention Professionals or WHIP for short. Yes, I think that is a money maker.
I think I used to know how to do these things on my own, but after a decade of having each and every moved directed by outside forces, be they bosses, my wife or the voices in my head, I have sort of checked out. I am no longer able to think for myself. I am a Rainman. Keep my in the home and let me watch my Wapner and we're all good, but take me on a car ride and all hell breaks loose.
Of course, this week of bachelorhood coincides with an unprecedented week of professional projects that are requiring much of my waking time. In fact, I am writing this blentry in between interviews, (so you can forgive me if continuity or conversational flow seems interrupted because it is being interrupted about every other paragraph, and no, astute reader, my interviewees did not heed my advice in my Oct. 20th blentry "Hat in Hand"). I thought that with Em out of town I could at least luxuriate in the center of the bed and get some good hard sleep, if not a lot of it.
Alas my sweet Siamese, Juliette is proving to be an ample substitute for my wife. In fact, her impression is uncanny. I woke up 3 times last night to covers being hogged and incessant snoring in my ear. It was as though my wife was right there with me. No hard sleep for me, just the normal unsettled kind I always get. Literally, like a baby.
Both sinks were full of dishes when I left this morning, odd, since I have only eaten one meal since yesterday and that was leftovers so the dish to food ratio was pretty low. I am sure the dishes will still be there as we had to let the help go in this most recent economic collapse. The yard needs to be raked and the guest bed and bedroom need to be refreshed for a guest coming this Friday night. That room doubles as my office and ironing room, so it is trashed beyond belief at this moment.
Atticus, the other cat, projectile vomited on my shoulder last night while I was committing the sin of sitting down in my chair for a half an hour to wind down after the long day. I cleaned it up, choking back my own wretches, (it was uncharacteristically human-like vomit), and he immediately puked on my foot, bigger and soupier than before. did I mention I had just taken off my socks because I accidentally walked through a piece of the first round of puking? No? Well, I did. I now know what it is like to have vomit on my own bare foot. I made it nearly 36 years without knowing that sensation. I assure you I could have gone 36 more.
To sum it all up, read the following as a blind man hitting a beat up guitar smoking a cigarette with a raspy slow rhythm vamping in the background. I got the temporary, gone too long, baby when you comin' home, I need you in my life, without you I am nothing, I'll never take you for granted again, where is my toothbrush, do these socks match, the house is on fire blues!
And it's only been one day. Pray for me.
Atticus is such a great name.
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