Five days of bachelor hell with my wife gone
Column: Check Your Head
By DAN MACEACHERN
Today staff
Originally published March 30, 2006
I used to be able to live alone. I even used to prefer it. But sometime in the past few years, I somehow lost that ability to be, like Neil Diamond, a solitary man.
I can't pinpoint exactly when. I do know that it was sometime after I met my future wife and before I married her. If I'm being honest, I still preferred living alone after Alex and I moved in together, for all intents and purposes; I had an apartment in Moose Jaw, she had an apartment 40 minutes away in Regina, but she was paying rent on a place where she stayed only a couple of nights a week.
I like to think that I always had my introverted and extroverted tendencies perfectly balanced. My parents would note that one moment they'd look outside and see me playing street hockey with my friends; an hour later, I wouldn't be there, and they'd find me up in my room reading comic books. An hour later, I'd be back out playing hockey.
This would continue into adulthood, which is when I suppose it's natural to start preferring a room of one's own. I went from living with 23 other guys in a Halifax residence to a house with four other guys to a house with two other guys. It's a good progression, I think, because as you get further into your studies, you start shifting some time allotted for going out to the bar to time that you need to study.
And then, you graduate, and you rent your own place, and then you are the sole authority on what channel to watch. You always get to read whatever section of the newspaper you want and not find out that Ian took the sports into the bathroom and got it all wet. You don't go to the cupboard and find out that a roommate ate your last cookie (actually, that was usually me who did that. Sorry, guys).
And I started to enjoy it. I enjoyed the independence that comes with adulthood. I enjoyed not having to pick up wet towels off the bathroom floor if I didn't feel like it.
Meeting the love of your life tends to change things. At least, it should. And it did, for me, eventually. It took some doing, and my wife is probably a better person to ask about what a make-work project I was (and I'm still a work-in-progress, I know). I can tell you (it's a story she loves to tell herself) that the first weekend she came to visit, I bought new towels instead of washing the ones I had.
OK -- so now I'm domesticated, and as a homeowner, there is the very beginning of a handyman streak, being nurtured steadily and patiently by my father-in-law. I have a table saw, and I do intend to use it, or at the very least take it out of the box. I have installed two light fixtures in my home, and having learned some lessons after installing the first one, I managed not to start any electrical fires installing the second one.
And now my wife's work takes her out of town from time to time. Usually it's just for a day or two, but she was gone for five days this most recent trip. I thought things would work out great -- the NCAA basketball tournament was down to the sweet sixteen, so I could watch uninterrupted basketball all weekend, rent some movies that I know she wouldn't be interested in seeing. I wasn't prepared for my five-day breakdown that would follow.
Day 1 -- Saturday.
In the morning, drop Alex off at airport. Go home, move PlayStation2 up from downstairs den to living room with big television and surround sound. Appreciate no one rolling her eyes because I'm 30 years old and have a PS2. Sack out on the couch with my dog to watch basketball all day. Briefly consider opening a beer, but it's not even noon yet, and I don't need to regress that far back into my bachelorhood. For supper, frozen pizza.
Day 2 -- Sunday
Sleep in. After getting up, take the dog for a walk. Wonder if I have socks and underwear for the week ahead at work. Make a mental note to check into that, and do laundry if I need to (this never occurs). More basketball. For dinner: leftover frozen pizza. Tidy up the place a bit, because mother-in-law is coming over to watch The Sopranos. The living room is presentable, but somehow the kitchen is filled with dirty dishes, so I turn off the kitchen light. The place is really empty, and my excitement at having the house to myself has evaporated completely.
Day 3 -- I think it's Monday
Wake up, shower, get dressed for work, fortunately finding clean socks and underwear. Do my best to remember which ties go with which shirts. Forget to make sure I don't have shaving cream still on my ears when I go in to work. For supper: I order chicken fingers from the restaurant across the street. I know how to cook, but don't like cooking for one anymore. Feel sorry for myself when I go to sleep in an empty bed, although my dog and two cats keep me company, curled up and sleeping with me, at least until the dog attempts to eat one of the cats. I make a mental note to make sure to feed the pets in the morning (this never occurs).
Day 4 -- Tuesday? Or is it Wednesday?
I think the dog is gone. I let her out back to do her business, and then I forgot she was out there and when I finally remembered to check, she wasn't there anymore. I make a mental note to go look for her, but I also have Season 1 of Miami Vice on DVD (so this never occurs). She's probably just under the laundry pile. I'm revisiting my theory, which I first articulated in college, that you can actually clean socks by turning them inside out and wearing them like that. I try cooking chicken breasts for supper. The box says I'm supposed to cook the chicken from the thawed state, but I'm hungry now, so I turn up the heat and cook the frozen breasts longer. The resulting burnt-on-the-outside, rubber-on-the-inside chicken is not very appetizing, so I give up. I figure I can handle cooking a can of Zoodles, and then have to eat it out of the pot when I realize there are no clean dishes. I suppose I could wash one, but since all the dishes in the kitchen are precariously balanced on top of each other, I'm afraid to try to pull one out, and send the whole thing toppling like a big game of stoneware Jenga.
Day 5 -- ? (have lost all sense of time)
The Zoodles ran out hours ago, and I've also found out that having cereal for supper wouldn't be so bad if I at least checked the expiration date on the milk cartoon. The dog hasn't come back. There are strange noises coming from the kitchen, but with the dog gone, I'm scared to go look. There may be squatters in the basement. I'm pretty sure the upstairs bathroom is on fire, but I'm not too concerned, because I also have a bathroom on the first floor.
- - -
Alex is home. The kitchen is clean, the dog is back, the bathroom fire is out, and I have clean socks and underwear right now. She negotiated a reasonable rent with the basement squatters.
I am now unlike Neil Diamond, in that I am no longer a solitary man. I'm sure there are other ways I differ from him, but I don't actually know him very well.
© Copyright 2006, Fort McMurray Today.
By DAN MACEACHERN
Today staff
Originally published March 30, 2006
I used to be able to live alone. I even used to prefer it. But sometime in the past few years, I somehow lost that ability to be, like Neil Diamond, a solitary man.
I can't pinpoint exactly when. I do know that it was sometime after I met my future wife and before I married her. If I'm being honest, I still preferred living alone after Alex and I moved in together, for all intents and purposes; I had an apartment in Moose Jaw, she had an apartment 40 minutes away in Regina, but she was paying rent on a place where she stayed only a couple of nights a week.
I like to think that I always had my introverted and extroverted tendencies perfectly balanced. My parents would note that one moment they'd look outside and see me playing street hockey with my friends; an hour later, I wouldn't be there, and they'd find me up in my room reading comic books. An hour later, I'd be back out playing hockey.
This would continue into adulthood, which is when I suppose it's natural to start preferring a room of one's own. I went from living with 23 other guys in a Halifax residence to a house with four other guys to a house with two other guys. It's a good progression, I think, because as you get further into your studies, you start shifting some time allotted for going out to the bar to time that you need to study.
And then, you graduate, and you rent your own place, and then you are the sole authority on what channel to watch. You always get to read whatever section of the newspaper you want and not find out that Ian took the sports into the bathroom and got it all wet. You don't go to the cupboard and find out that a roommate ate your last cookie (actually, that was usually me who did that. Sorry, guys).
And I started to enjoy it. I enjoyed the independence that comes with adulthood. I enjoyed not having to pick up wet towels off the bathroom floor if I didn't feel like it.
Meeting the love of your life tends to change things. At least, it should. And it did, for me, eventually. It took some doing, and my wife is probably a better person to ask about what a make-work project I was (and I'm still a work-in-progress, I know). I can tell you (it's a story she loves to tell herself) that the first weekend she came to visit, I bought new towels instead of washing the ones I had.
OK -- so now I'm domesticated, and as a homeowner, there is the very beginning of a handyman streak, being nurtured steadily and patiently by my father-in-law. I have a table saw, and I do intend to use it, or at the very least take it out of the box. I have installed two light fixtures in my home, and having learned some lessons after installing the first one, I managed not to start any electrical fires installing the second one.
And now my wife's work takes her out of town from time to time. Usually it's just for a day or two, but she was gone for five days this most recent trip. I thought things would work out great -- the NCAA basketball tournament was down to the sweet sixteen, so I could watch uninterrupted basketball all weekend, rent some movies that I know she wouldn't be interested in seeing. I wasn't prepared for my five-day breakdown that would follow.
Day 1 -- Saturday.
In the morning, drop Alex off at airport. Go home, move PlayStation2 up from downstairs den to living room with big television and surround sound. Appreciate no one rolling her eyes because I'm 30 years old and have a PS2. Sack out on the couch with my dog to watch basketball all day. Briefly consider opening a beer, but it's not even noon yet, and I don't need to regress that far back into my bachelorhood. For supper, frozen pizza.
Day 2 -- Sunday
Sleep in. After getting up, take the dog for a walk. Wonder if I have socks and underwear for the week ahead at work. Make a mental note to check into that, and do laundry if I need to (this never occurs). More basketball. For dinner: leftover frozen pizza. Tidy up the place a bit, because mother-in-law is coming over to watch The Sopranos. The living room is presentable, but somehow the kitchen is filled with dirty dishes, so I turn off the kitchen light. The place is really empty, and my excitement at having the house to myself has evaporated completely.
Day 3 -- I think it's Monday
Wake up, shower, get dressed for work, fortunately finding clean socks and underwear. Do my best to remember which ties go with which shirts. Forget to make sure I don't have shaving cream still on my ears when I go in to work. For supper: I order chicken fingers from the restaurant across the street. I know how to cook, but don't like cooking for one anymore. Feel sorry for myself when I go to sleep in an empty bed, although my dog and two cats keep me company, curled up and sleeping with me, at least until the dog attempts to eat one of the cats. I make a mental note to make sure to feed the pets in the morning (this never occurs).
Day 4 -- Tuesday? Or is it Wednesday?
I think the dog is gone. I let her out back to do her business, and then I forgot she was out there and when I finally remembered to check, she wasn't there anymore. I make a mental note to go look for her, but I also have Season 1 of Miami Vice on DVD (so this never occurs). She's probably just under the laundry pile. I'm revisiting my theory, which I first articulated in college, that you can actually clean socks by turning them inside out and wearing them like that. I try cooking chicken breasts for supper. The box says I'm supposed to cook the chicken from the thawed state, but I'm hungry now, so I turn up the heat and cook the frozen breasts longer. The resulting burnt-on-the-outside, rubber-on-the-inside chicken is not very appetizing, so I give up. I figure I can handle cooking a can of Zoodles, and then have to eat it out of the pot when I realize there are no clean dishes. I suppose I could wash one, but since all the dishes in the kitchen are precariously balanced on top of each other, I'm afraid to try to pull one out, and send the whole thing toppling like a big game of stoneware Jenga.
Day 5 -- ? (have lost all sense of time)
The Zoodles ran out hours ago, and I've also found out that having cereal for supper wouldn't be so bad if I at least checked the expiration date on the milk cartoon. The dog hasn't come back. There are strange noises coming from the kitchen, but with the dog gone, I'm scared to go look. There may be squatters in the basement. I'm pretty sure the upstairs bathroom is on fire, but I'm not too concerned, because I also have a bathroom on the first floor.
- - -
Alex is home. The kitchen is clean, the dog is back, the bathroom fire is out, and I have clean socks and underwear right now. She negotiated a reasonable rent with the basement squatters.
I am now unlike Neil Diamond, in that I am no longer a solitary man. I'm sure there are other ways I differ from him, but I don't actually know him very well.
© Copyright 2006, Fort McMurray Today.
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