Last week Johnny’s job required him to travel to the great city of Atlanta and subsequently, spend the night. He’s not a big fan of Atlanta traffic or having to go to company-related dinner activities, so I was kind of bummed out for him. However, duty called so we pressed khakis and packed up a duffel bag. The next morning he departed and I reported to my current temp job. It was mid-morning when it hit me. Holy shit, I’ll have the house to myself tonight.
Folks, as much as I love my dear sweet husband, I was positively giddy with this realization. The possibilities were zinging through my head at warp speed. Where to start? I’ll do my nails…at the coffee table. I’ll eat pita chips and edamame for dinner! I’ll watch Sex in the City on my computer while simultaenously watching “Under the Tuscan Sun” on the flatscreen. I will spend the night in Johnny’s sleep pants and my fleeciest frumpiest sweatshirt. I will make a dirty martini and listen to Sigur Ros and Kelly Clarkson at a volume that is ridiculous. And? The ultimate forbidden treat? I will let my sweet stinky dog sleep in the bed with me! Pure Heaven, I tell you.
Of course I would prefer to have Johnny home with me but you folks that cohabitate know what I speak of. You rarely get an entire night to yourself to treasure and do whatever you like. There’s dinner and laundry and the news and grocery lists and the mail, etc. Getting a night to yourself is a guilty pleasure. In my single days it wasn’t a concern as it was just life, but nowadays a night alone is as rare and uncommon as a sober Charlie Sheen.
After work I came home and put on my cozy attire. Now, I’ll be honest. This part of my routine is commonplace. Johnny often laughs when I jump off the couch donning sweatpants to go put on something more comfy, ie: pajamas. “Aren’t you wearing pajamas right now”? Um. no. These are yoga pants. Duh. I don’t know how people come home and stay in “real” clothes. I cannot do it. When in my home I see no reason for shoes. Or say, a bra.
The next order of business was a cocktail. Okay, that’s notsomuch unusual either. I surveyed the situation and flipped on the tv. After a cursory glance I quickly realized there was really nothing on. I plopped down at my laptop and did some Facebook stalking for a spell. Yawn. Time for another drink. Okay, maybe some music will get this party started. I grabbed my iPod and put it on the docking station set to my awesome “girlz rule” playlist. Funny, I never noticed before how whiny Brand Carlisle can sound. Adele sounds preachy. I cannot listen to anymore Gaga as I have over-saturated myself in her fabulousness. Strike two.
I know! I will phone my gay BFF in Hollywood and we’ll dish! Strike three. Voicemail. He’s out being fabulous, it appears. Well, I guess I’ll have another drink.
As I was again flipping through channels I saw a hilarious Cottonelle commerical. I’ve posted before on my affinity for this toilet paper. I laughed out loud and thought that’s hysterical! You know who would find that hysterical? Johnny! Oh, that’s right. Not here. I decided to make a snack. After a glance into the freezer and panty I came to the sad realization that I had neither pita chips nor edamame. What I had was some stale bread, some leftover tandoori and a string cheese. Total dinner fail. This evening blows.
My evening ended with my drunk ass sitting on the couch shoving a sackful of Krystals* coupled with chili cheese fries into my gullet while sullenly watching the first “Twilight” movie. Kind of like my single life, really. Now, don’t get me wrong, three years ago this would have been a perfectly delightful night for me. Booze, bad tv and even worse food. A trifecta! Now, however, my house is just a house when Johnny’s not home. See? It’s a home when he’s in it.
Ya’ll know how non-romantic I am but you can see what I’m going for here.
I wasn’t lonely before Johnny came into my life. It was when he came into my life that I realized the difference. It’s like the difference between black and white and color television. Everything seems brighter when he’s around. I miss him when he’s not. A night to myself just wasn’t the treat I thought it would be. Although, I’ll admit, I totally love spooning that stinky dog.
Happy anniversary, Johnny. Three years ago you gave me a home and a family and I love you more now then I did then. I’m sorry I let the dog use your pillow.
* In the interest of full disclosure I admitted that but in no way do I endorse or recommend eating Krystal’s, but if you are hitting the sauce and getting a bit peckish those little square sliders are Heaven on a bun. I can eat five in less then 6 minutes. I’m totally bringing sexy back.