The long weekend was finally upon me. I bid farewell to my wife and children. They would be spending the next few days with the inlaws, leaving me with a list of things to do around the house, and an empty hole in my heart.
But mostly that list.
Can a man fend for himself without human interaction, hot food or clean underpants? And will he wait to cut the lawn until about ten minutes before they’re due back?
At age 48, I intended to find out.
He was truly… Alone in the Suburbs. They even took the fucking dog. But he would endure. He would even consider filming his one man odyssey with the help of an iphone mounted on a tripod and that app that makes everything look like an old home movie like the one that guy made about living all by himself in Alaska for like a year or something. But then he thought, “too much work.”
DAY ONE: I arose bright and early, getting right to work fashioning my own primitive tools. I carved a mallet head out of a block of wood, augured a hole into it, and fitted a handle.
Actually, I slept until about noon, and I’m not really sure what augured means.
When I awoke, I was anxious to get to the couch to see if there was anything good on ESPN2.
Eventually, I needed to forage for sustenance. I prepared a hearty meal of cheesy taco-flavored pizza rolls and the rest of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Being lactose intolerant, I spent the next four hours “indisposed.” On the bright side, the bathroom window has a lovely view of the backyard.
I should probably get to that lawn.
As the sun began to set, I thought of all I’d accomplished that day. I had the process of doing dishes down to a science by not actually doing them. And I saved myself any additional work by drinking right from the carton.
(Back to the bathroom.)
Tomorrow should see more working. And less dairy.