Home Alone

I admit it. I’m one sloped forehead away from a Neanderthal.  If it weren’t for my husband I’d be in my sweats, on the couch, slurping butter noodles, switching between Bravo and E every night.  Mark is the more civilized one in the relationship.   He cooks.  And not just man food.  His dishes are plate-licking good.  He makes meals that I am way too lazy to even read the recipes for.  And ladies, don’t get too excited, but he also washes the pans!  I HATE washing pans.  This translates into “rinsing” them off before using them again.   And on occasion, when he guilt trips me into it, he makes me watch some really interesting shows on TV. Granted they are all nerdy but I do feel a bit more educated when I turn off the TV than after my shows.  

So when he travels for work it’s like the wheels have come off the bus.   My life becomes one huge, complicated mess.  Add Ella to the mix and I need a stiff drink before 9:00 am.    Its only Wednesday, but I’ve already eaten way too much fast food (no leftovers for lunch so I guess I have to eat Chik-Fil-A again, twist my arm…), the dishes from this weekend are quietly taking over the countertop (plans for total kitchen domination are in the works), the clothes pile on the couch will not be touched until 10 minutes before he comes in the door (and then it will be thrown on the chair in the bedroom).  

I have two more days of this.  I’m tired.  I want him to come home.  I want real food again.  I’ll even watch the History Channel without complaint.  At least until the Kardashians come on.