When The Wife's Away

I just dropped the wife off at the airport. She's headed to San Francisco to see Widespread Panic and Radiohead at an outdoor music festival. I was invited, but since that's just about my worst nightmare, I opted to stay home. Even if I actually wanted to go, I'd be hard pressed to give up a weekend in the house by myself.

The wife and I have lived together for 6 years. Before that, I was the ultimate bachelor. My house was like a cesspool. It smelled like a mix of smoke, bong water, sweat, fungus, ball cheese, and diarrhea. I never cleaned. I never threw anything away. I never cared about hygiene. It was disgusting, and wonderful.

Over the past 6 years, I've become domesticated. It all started when the wife brought over a plant. We named him Robert and he was my responsibility. While I was tending to Robert, she was decorating with doilies and curtains and a bunch of shit from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. She bought a vacuum and Lysol and non-paper plates and non-plastic silverware. She banned smoking in the house and made me throw out the trash. Soon, the smell dissipated and the clutter disappeared. All of a sudden, I was living like a human.

I gotta tell ya, there are some major advantages to having a woman in the house. For example, now I don't get staph infections or shingles nearly as much. And, I don't have random animals burrowing in my filth. Still, sometimes, a man's gotta be a man and he can't do that in the presence of a woman. So, I am going to embrace this weekend of solitude and revert back to my ways before cohabitation.

I won't shower. I won't shave. I won't brush my teeth. I'll wear the same underwear until it becomes like cardboard. When that happens, I'll be naked, like a Neanderthal. I'll touch my genitals constantly. I'll have beer for breakfast. I'll smoke cigars in the house (and I don't even like cigars). I'll jerk off to Olympic gymnastics. Shit, I'll turn the whole third floor into a masturbatorium.

I won't feed the cats, only providing them nourishment from the large amounts of fried chicken droppings I'll leave on the floor. I won't water the plants, not even Robert. I won't throw out the trash AND I won't recycle. I'll listen to Rush, Styx, Yes, and every other band she hates. I'll watch every movie ever made by the actors who play Harold and Kumar. I'll practice UFC moves on the dog. I'll embarrass myself in front of the neighbors.

If I decide to leave my oasis of squalor, I'll be as obnoxious as I was before I had a partner to get pissed off about it. I'll drive fast, then slow, then fast. I'll honk at the wrong times. I'll get kicked out of Red Lobster and Benihana (if that's possible). I'll eat with my hands. I'll throw ice at random people at the bar. I'll fight (using those aforementioned UFC moves). I'll say extremely inappropriate things to people who really don't deserve it.

Yes, it will be glorious. Eventually however, this freedom will start to wear on me. I'll be sick and dirty and wounded and nauseated. And, I'll be lonely. I'll miss the affection and cleanliness that only a woman can provide.

Just then, I'll call Irma, our delightful Mexican maid. She'll get busy and I'll head to the airport to pick up the wife. When she returns, she'll be so impressed by how clean I kept the house. I'll be back to being a married pussy. I will remember though, that it's still possible to be a gross male slob. That will hold me over until the next time some shitty bands pique my wife's interest.