There are two more things I now know for sure.
The next time I forget to buy groceries and then leave my husband home alone in the country without a vehicle for the weekend, I can rest assured that Cohort #1 will come to the rescue with rations.
I also know for sure that I never expected excerpts of Pete’s rusty bachelor weekend, documented in my laptop while I was away, would rival the comic strip of my annual trip to the big city with a teenager for school clothes shopping.
At any rate, when I read the “poor me” passages, I just couldn’t see any alternative other than publication of “The Rusty Bachelor Diaries.”
While Beth was jamming the last bit of clothing into her suitcase, I was on the Internet looking up websites on “what to rebuild while your wife is away for the weekend.”
I minimized the screen as she walked up and gave me a kiss and said in an enthusiastic tone, “Aren’t you lucky–gonna be a bachelor this weekend!
Well, I have to admit the prospect did excite me for about two minutes after my wife and Daughter #3 tore up what little gravel there was in the yard while making their getaway to the big city for the weekend.
I leaned back in the computer chair rubbing my hungry stomach and dreaming of the eggs, bacon, and toast breakfast I was going to whip up, and the freedom of 48-hour bachelorhood that would purport “dirty dishes in the sink until you can’t see the faucets lifestyle” that I was looking forward to.
Just to make sure they were really gone, I stood up and gave them a final wave out the living room window and then turned with arms outstretched and shouted “the party is on!”
I tore back to the kitchen for the last cup of coffee. But alas, Beth had turned off the coffee and it had gone cold.
“Oh well, get breakfast,” I said to my bachelor self.
I threw open the fridge–and what to my wandering eyes should appear—ya, right. Sure. The fridge was bare, except for a half-head of lettuce and an empty milk carton left in there by a teenager.
The dogs stood beside me looking at the empty fridge in disbelief, their brainpower sending out waves of “there’s also no parmesan cheese for our dinner.”
Then my rusted bachelor mind kicked in and I started to take stock of this dismal start to the so called “single” weekend.
My eyes started to twitch as I realized that not only was the fridge devoid of food and beer, I also had no vehicle by which to get the most important staple of the bachelor weekend!
On top of it all, my wife left me with a stack of dishes as high as the upper cupboards in the kitchen and no toilet paper in the loo.
After I pulled myself together, I headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth and grab a hot shower.
I stood at the bathroom sink growling as I brushed my teeth with toothpaste that I managed to salvage from a shrivelled tube in the garbage can because Beth and Daughter #3 had taken the new one for their trip.
I looked in the mirror, having recently began growing my hair out. In doing so, I’ve learned that if I don’t take care of it, I start to look like my head exploded.
Suddenly my mood and my hair began to replicate Beth’s “Medusa complex” as I discovered that the best of my hair products also had beat a hasty retreat to the big city in a suitcase.
Hair in a panic and starving to death, I grabbed a white tea towel from the kitchen rack and ran out onto the driveway waving it—hoping to be saved from the trauma of a bachelor weekend going every which way but right.
If I could get through the picket line the birds had set up (because we also were out of birdseed), I’d planned to roast the bushy-tailed rodent for supper that “Dot” snuffed during a strafing run at a nearby tree stump early in the morning.
Thanks to Cohort #1, who drove by and caught a glimpse of my distress, the capability of my survival went up a notch with a store-bought sub sandwich and transportation for the most important two-four staple of a bachelor weekend.
The party is back on!
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