by Ben Small
So my wife is gone, hooray, hooray. Nobody to tell me what to do, where and when. Oh, what to do today, today?
Two full weeks, I'm on my own. Fourteen days for the Honey Do list, which of course, I'll put off for thirteen of them. The garbage? It'll wait for two weeks. Yes, it'll smell, but my neighbor's a bitch and the winds blow her way. The laundry, the dishes? I'll do them when I run out.
No Nancy Grace, no hour-by-hour reports on Casey Anthony. No HGTV. I can watch sports to my heart's content, or look on DirecTV for shoot-em-ups and boobs. Two weeks of clicker freedom, if I can just find the damn thing. What to watch; oh, what to watch? Lemme see. No football or basketball. Golf? I'd rather watch a saguaro grow. Baseball? You gotta be kidding. I haven't forgiven baseball for 1994. So I plug in "Boobs" in DirecTV's search function. Nothing comes up. Maybe I'll rent 9 1/2 Weeks; that's always good. But where's that clicker? Haven't seen it in months. It's always in her hands, and I can never find anything she's hidden.
She stocked the fridge will all sorts of meals. Hah, me cook? Right. Where's the pizza man? Do I have enough beer?
Maybe I'll call my buddies, watch old NFL games on the NFL channel. Chips, pretzels, pizza and beer -- lots of beer. Oh wait, my pals are all married. They can't get out of the house for a beer and boobs party. Damn!
Gotta clean the pool, avoid the green. But that can wait. Overload it with chlorine the night before. She gets home and she'll never know.
Maybe I'll tour gun shops, pick up another one. Oh wait, she'll see the credit card record, and she knows my inventory and the combo to my safe. And I have no Kevlar vest for when she gets back.
I could go shooting, hang out at the range. But it's 105 outside. Who'll call 911 when I pass out tonight?
Maybe I'll lay out at the pool, take a dip when I melt. Get brown like an almond. But who'll wake me up when I'm nap, frying the Colonel Sanders way?
Yard work? C'mon. Who does yard work when their wife is gone?
There's always Tombstone... Play dress-up, look like Doc Holiday. But again, it's 105 today. That long coat and pink vest, a tie, the wool pants... I don't think so. And I certainly don't want Big Nose Kate following me home.
What about the rabbits eating my yard. Sight in my pellet gun, pick off a few. Nobody to call PETA; nobody to wail if I shoot Bugs. But where's my ammo; she's hidden it again.
I'd wash my car, but we're in a drought. Well, that's a good excuse. So I gotta think of some more for the rest of my chores. Two weeks. Heck, I'm creative and write fiction; plenty of time to fashion some lies.
Maybe I'll write, add a chapter or two. But my wife's my muse, my editor-in-chief. Beer and a computer, not a good mix. My characters will do stuff that nobody can fix.
So here I sit, feeling like...uh...poop. Fourteen days and here's the scoop. Malaise, yeah that's my mood. How oh how, will I survive this faze.
If it weren't for my toe, I'd be on the go. With my wife, with a life.
She's been gone an hour, and yes, I'm dour. Please, honey, please, please come back. Fourteen long days; one hour in, and I'm in the slack.
Co-dependency, yes siree. And proud of it, you plainly see.
Please, honey, please, please come back...