Monday, February 19, 2007

Ain't No Sunshine Where She's Gone

Except for the PTS-inducing fireworks, life's pretty good down here. But, for the Missus, at least, it's not without a high price tag: she's got to spend seven days a week cooped up with a miserable prick like me. This is a pretty substantial downside when you figure that the upside, basically, is unlimited enchiladas and the ability to wear short sleeves in February. (Of course, I find my own company pretty unbearable, too, but you don't see me complaining about it.) So on the ludicrous pretext of feeling nostalgia for dampness, both in weather and in food, she's taking the next couple of weeks to stick herself where the sun don't shine.

"You can't go," I said. "The plants will die!" Then I remembered: we have a gardener. Off to the bus station we went.

So for the next 14 days it's me and the perrito, and some good old-fashioned male bonding. If you come by the house and see a guy passed out on the sofa in his underwear with a melting container of ice cream on his chest and a loudly-snoring dog on his lap, don't call the paramedics (not that they'd come anyway). It's just the two of us.

Take it away, Bill...

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