Why men are so damn hard to figure out
Got back from a mini road trip on Saturday with full expectations to get things done.
Give the house a good scrubbin.
Bathe and brush two very stinky dogs.
Wash a load of clothing.
Unpack and organize (finally) all the backpacking gear that looks as if it exploded in the spare bedroom.
Start removing the wallpaper in said room in preparation to paint.
Get cleaned up and go to mass.
Get in a Nordic walk, for at least an hour.
Cook a healthy and nutritious meal.
Try for eight hours of sleep.
I watched about eight hours of college football instead. Unshaven in my favorite pair of sweats and no shirt, dirty, stinky dogs at my feet, eating microwave popcorn, a few Tootsie Pops and drinking beer.
I don't feel bad or ashamed or anything. I just wonder what's going to happen once the NFL cranks up. I mean, this is my first full season being single again, without a wife who said she didn't mind if I watched the game, but secretly fumed. I mean, I get all goose-bumpy with prospects of having the guys over for a couple of my hand-tossed pizzas, a few cold ones and a great pro football game.
Oh, yeah, the strippers.
So my very cute, very single (but way too young) neighbors came over Saturday afternoon and gave me their telephone numbers.
"We're having a party tonight and you are invited," they said. "We're just making sure to give all the neighbors our numbers, in case it gets too loud."
(They party often. Doesn't bother me. Doesn't bother the guy on the other side of them, since he's young and parties too. The cops have been called to the house before. I have my suspicions, but this neighbor swears he hasn't called.)
"We're grilling early. Come on over and get a beer."
"It's a bachelor party, if you want to know."
"They'll be strippers from 9 until 11 and I told the guys to let you in."
"We won't be there, of course."
"Stop on by."
Football kept my ass glued to the couch, even when I knew that right next door was free barbecue, free beer and strippers.
All hail the power of football.
Give the house a good scrubbin.
Bathe and brush two very stinky dogs.
Wash a load of clothing.
Unpack and organize (finally) all the backpacking gear that looks as if it exploded in the spare bedroom.
Start removing the wallpaper in said room in preparation to paint.
Get cleaned up and go to mass.
Get in a Nordic walk, for at least an hour.
Cook a healthy and nutritious meal.
Try for eight hours of sleep.
I watched about eight hours of college football instead. Unshaven in my favorite pair of sweats and no shirt, dirty, stinky dogs at my feet, eating microwave popcorn, a few Tootsie Pops and drinking beer.
I don't feel bad or ashamed or anything. I just wonder what's going to happen once the NFL cranks up. I mean, this is my first full season being single again, without a wife who said she didn't mind if I watched the game, but secretly fumed. I mean, I get all goose-bumpy with prospects of having the guys over for a couple of my hand-tossed pizzas, a few cold ones and a great pro football game.
Oh, yeah, the strippers.
So my very cute, very single (but way too young) neighbors came over Saturday afternoon and gave me their telephone numbers.
"We're having a party tonight and you are invited," they said. "We're just making sure to give all the neighbors our numbers, in case it gets too loud."
(They party often. Doesn't bother me. Doesn't bother the guy on the other side of them, since he's young and parties too. The cops have been called to the house before. I have my suspicions, but this neighbor swears he hasn't called.)
"We're grilling early. Come on over and get a beer."
"It's a bachelor party, if you want to know."
"They'll be strippers from 9 until 11 and I told the guys to let you in."
"We won't be there, of course."
"Stop on by."
Football kept my ass glued to the couch, even when I knew that right next door was free barbecue, free beer and strippers.
All hail the power of football.
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