"This is gonna get ugly" I told myself, blissfully unaware how true those words were. See, before I met my wife, I was basically a wreck. I'm sure a lot of married men can relate. I was marginally human. I worked like I had a death wish, never exercised, enjoyed all things to excess, lived a completely schedule free life, was a hardcore insomniac, dabbled in self loathing and was a professional procrastinator. In short, it was pretty sweet. But things got even better after I found my wife. Now there's a little white board with days of the week and a manageable list of things to clean up on each day. I quit smoking cloves, and I (sometimes) eat healthy. I work out, floss, rinse, repeat and generally live a more balanced and happy life. Except of course when she abandons me like this and I'm thrust into my old self destructive ways. The horrific downside of which is that after living a normal life, I've lost my taste for the chaos that is bachelorhood. But I digress. I was laying in bed trying to decide if I should make coffee or drive to Vegas and blow all my money on cheap women and expensive drogas, when The Beast dropped a weapons grade flatulent bomb on my unsuspecting town of counterpane. I exited the boudoir post haste and prepared to greet the first of many lonely days.
Since we have just begun the season in Washington known by natives as "f*&#^ing cold" (This is September - July, sometimes longer) I went out to get firewood. Since my brain was now functioning in bachelor mode and further handicapped by a lack of coffee, I decided to get creative with the timber and use my dolly. I won't go into graphic detail but somehow the floor ended up covered in bark chips and pine needles. This wasn't a big deal until I went to get a broom from the kitchen closet and discovered that two Pepsi cans had made a suicide pact and jumped to their doom from the top shelf, dispatching their guts all over my floor and resulting in a graphic and sticky crime scene. Everything porous had sponged up copious amounts of liquid, requiring the entire contents of the closet to be hauled out, wiped down and re-stashed.
All this happened before I could pour a single pot of coffee down my face. And I haven't even mentioned the giant turd that annihilated my foot! That's right, when my wife leaves me alone, big pieces of crap fall on my bare feet. Awesome!
After cleaning that up I donned my trusty disposable poop gloves and went out to clear the patio of any aromatic gifts left for me by our three gastrointestinally endowed dogs.(somehow they expel more than they consume) All had made an effort to contribute. Generally it's easiest to just scoop the steaming piles up with disposable gloves and sling handfuls of warm sludge into a plastic bag. This particular day. Epic Fail. A yellow log slipped from between my fingers like so many (giant, steaming) grains of sand. It rocketed straight down to engage it's target: my naked, defenseless foot. I have no explanation for this other than if my wife had been home instead of ditching me, things would have happened different and my foot would be fecal free.
This series of tragic events inspired me to construct a master list of reasons my wife should never leave me to my own devices, in the hopes that she will never abandon me for more than a few hours at a time. So without further ado.
Reasons my wife should never leave me on my own.
1) The world falls apart.
Disaster besets me at every turn. Without warning, tragedy strikes the moment The Wife is 10+ miles away. Exhibit A: Sodas commit suicide. Boom, pop, fizzzzzzz, blerg!
2) I'm unable to cook like a rockstar for only myself.
(Exhibit B) I burned the heart and soul out of this pizza . Generally speaking I'm a gnarly cook. But this little guy. Epic Fail. I made twice cooked pizza, where you cook the top and flip it over on non stick foil to broil the crust to make it nice and crispy, I've done this before (a necessity when using these lame low carb tortillas instead of crust) with immaculate results. This time, I was distracted with something stupid, since The Wife wasn't here (like trying to find two socks that match out of 20) . It only took 6 minutes to cremate (RIP sweet pizza). This was a new low and it's totally her fault. I need someone else here to cook for to keep me focused dammit!
To reiterate: Fatty-logs of doggy deuce plummet from my nitrile gloved hand and hurtle like a smart bomb directly onto my naked foot. I'll spare you the truly gory photos. (Exhibit C: Sad flip flop, collateral damage)
4) Yeh, that's right.
5) I'm forced to face the world sober.
I also left my wallet in our matrix. The car, Wifey drove to the airport. So no beer will be drowning my sorrows.
6) The dogs realize I'm outnumbered and hate on me wicked hard.
Feeling the sting of my empty bed I decided to allow Bonnie and The Beast to forgo their crate and cuddle up with me and Bubba on the fold out for the night. My kindness was not rewarded. Still reeling from the fecal bombing yesterday, I had no idea a secondary blitzkrap was in the works. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and planted my foot straight into a donut hole sized ball of slimy, yellow wreaking Beastapotamos droppings. Unheard of! The Beast never deuces the house! Right where I get out of bed in the morning? Hater! Untoward! I hop into the kitchen to get clean-wipes. Put the defiled blanket in the laundry and return to clear the landmine site. Once a thurough scrubbing and three coats of cleaner have been applied I go to let the merry pranksters (who watched my plight with smug satisfaction from the couch) out to pee. Alas, what is that cold squishy feeling on my so recently defiled foot? Could it be? Gasp, shutter. Say it ain't so... OH, the humanity. My poor browbeaten foot, tragical sitting upon a bed of amonia. Tag teamed! I cannot take much more of this and The Wife has only been gone 2 days!