DW has been gone for four nights now (that’s four nights down and another seven to go), so (insert poor-me pity comments and general whining here) I got to spend Saturday night by myself, just me and my Kosher for Passover macaroons, perusing all the blogs that I haven’t had time to look at during the week.
I’ve always wanted to start a post with “DW.” You see, DW writes her journal on another blogging site that shall remain nameless here and when I go over there and look around, I see many bloggers of the female persuasion referring to their hubbies as DH.
Now, what does the D stand for, you may ask? I’m hoping it’s dearest, darling or some other such affectionate claptrap. I cringe to think of the possible alternatives. I bet the term of endearment is just a front, a ruse engaged in by the Secret Society of Women Bloggers. I’m sure the D really stands for dumb, dufus, damned or some other cleverly disguised put-down of the inept, clownish and clueless males who occupy their households for the sole reason that the DWs, out of the kindness of their hearts, don’t put them out with the cat at night.
Not long ago, DW gently suggested that I might be happier crossing the Rubicon, moving to the other side and blogging on the site that she uses. In the name of honesty, I’m pretty sure DW made the suggestion because she took pity on me after I began cussing and foaming at the mouth when I couldn’t get my WP formatting to do what I wanted it to do because I am a mushwit who never bothered learning how to code basic HTML properly. Frustration is my calling card and tantrums are my forte (I’ve been fine tuning them since the age of four and I’ve gotten pretty good at it, if I must say so myself).
What really got my hackles up was when my attempt to do something as simple as bolding a heading somehow translated from the beginner’s <b> and </b> tags into something called <strong>. I have to admit, for a minute I felt pretty good. I am strong! I am Tarzan of the Apes! I began beating my breast and emitting jungle calls until I realized that, no, the code was not a reflection on my corporeal or mental fortitude; it just meant that I am a mushwit who can’t code for crap.
Fortunately, WordPress has thought of this. Hence, there are little buttons labeled B and I for bold and italics. Spoonfed like pablum. I love it.
DW headed up north to be with family for Easter and for the dedication of our little grandniece (see yesterday’s post). Originally, I had planned to go too, but, as my father is fond of saying, work is the curse of the drinking class. I was going to use some of my vacation time, but there was this project, and it involved multiple company locations, and then I somehow got volunteered to be on these committees, and — well, I won’t bore you with the details. So here I am, bachin’ it.
Now, under normal circumstances, I would take full advantage of my period of bachelorhood to eat out in restaurants every night. Or at least until DW starts sending me texts replete with ominous warnings about how I’m running up the Visa. Not this time, though. It’s Passover! This means that I am stuck in a double bind: I can’t eat any of my usual foods and I can’t go out to eat either. Passover consists of eight days of extensive food restrictions. If you read my Passover Pity Party post, you know what I’m talking about.
I am very fortunate indeed that DW is so kindhearted. She makes me feel loved. Prior to her departure, she made sure that I am well set up for meals, even cooking a pile of carrots and potatoes and divvying them up into Gladware containers so that I can microwave them. We made a trip over to the Coachella Valley and bought jars of my Passover soup that I can just heat up and cans of Passover tuna to take to work for lunch. I really need to learn how to cook. Nah, too lazy.
My protracted laziness is not limited to cooking. It also extends to doing laundry, vacuuming and performing a strange ritual that DW refers to as washing dishes. This last pursuit must be done by hand due to the fact that our local water smells bad and is harder than a baguette that’s been left sitting out for a week and a half. Or, I should probably say, harder than a matzah. One foolish enough to try using the dishwashing machine ends up removing the dishes at the end of the cycle and washing them all over again by hand. Unless you like to eat off baked-on crud, that is.
The last time DW absented herself for an extended period of time, I merely ran water and dish soap in my dishes after use, and left them sitting in the sink. Upon returning, DW wondered why the house smelled like a cesspool. Until, that is, she saw a sink full of soap suds under which lay a large pile of dishes bearing the residue of moldering food. Even for DW, who is familiar with the depth of my laziness, this was the penultimate.
This time, however, we were prepared. DW left me with a large pile of Styrofoam plates and a box of plastic forks, spoons and knives.
I guess I’d better haul the trash down to the dumpster, though. It is just possible that I may have eaten fish three or four nights ago, which is probably why the house is starting to reek like the dock of the bay.
Air freshener, anyone?