Out of Practice, Pt. 3

Three things that happened today to illustrate the difficulties I now have keeping the household, er, myself together solo:

1. Stopped to get gas this morning and pulled up the wrong side of the car to the pump. Twice. Then drove away in shame as the man at the pump between the two I’d flirted with laughed and laughed.

2. Was given a pity supper by someone at the office concerned about what I was eating with Christopher away — literally, I am like a hapless widower that the community decides to bring casseroles to.

3. Got two-thirds through dog walk — which was taking place during our city’s crowded gallery hop — before realizing that my T-shirt was on inside out.

Not to mention, I only managed two yoga mornings. Luckily, Mr. Rowe returns tomorrow.

4 thoughts on “Out of Practice, Pt. 3”

  1. Gwenda, for some reason your co-worker’s gift of a “pity supper” reminded me of something that happened to me years ago in Boston. I was living alone, it was Thanksgiving, I was sick as a dog with flu, and I had a desperate craving for orange juice. I threw on whatever clothes came to habe, staggered out of the flat, greasy looking and wan, and finally found a convenience store open. When I took my oj to the counter, fumbling to find change in my pocket, the clerk filled up the bag with other food and insisted I take it. In my flu-fuddled state, it was only later that I realized that I looked like such crap that he thought I was a homeless person he was kindly giving a holiday meal to….

  2. Yeah, what’s up with all of us folks being left alone recently (you, me, Tim Pratt, Laura Chavoen [aka Bill Shunn’s wife], etc.) by their spouses? When my wife was staying at her sister’s lately, I was nigh useless. I stayed up way late since I had no idea what time it was (i.e., there was no baby going to bed at 8, no wife going to bed at 11) and ended up eating out every night. And I love to cook!
    I’m glad that they’re back. Hope Mr. Rowe comes home soon and he feels sufficiently bad at leaving you alone.

  3. The morning hit me with a wicked headache.
    I found a pizza stain on my pantleg.
    I wish I could, but for sure I can’t say
    How I got home.
    I hit the bottle when you left on Monday.
    I’m sick of drinking, and it’s only Sunday.
    I don’t think I will last one more day.
    Will you come home?
    It’s just that living is harder today
    And I got crazy when you’re away
    So I say: will you come home?
    My place is messy and the fridge is empty.
    My get-up-and-go has gone and left me.
    Could it be that the reason is simply
    That you’re not home?
    I try pretending that I’ll be OK,
    But I have troubles seeing it that way.
    So I turn my thoughts to the one day
    When you’ll come home.
    It’s just that living is harder today
    And I got crazy when you’re away
    So I say: will you come home?
    I’ve got a problem,
    In case you have missed it.
    You hold the answer:
    I know you can fix it.
    I’m in a daze–I feel like a misfit.
    Will you come home?

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