Home Alone Dad
Possibly you remember the 1990 film Home Alone. Parents leave on family vacation, forgetting one of their children? Very improbable, obviously.
But what does happen every summer, in who knows how many houses across the continent, is the scene just enacted in my house this week:Wife, children, dogs depart for some cooler summer spot, leaving the husband alone to fend for himself.
In my case, "alone" is not really an exact description. As readers of this paper's Weekend Post will know, my house is a construction site this summer, so I have the famous contractors Brent and John for company. Still, Brent and John do eventually go home. And even while they are at work, the house functions like one of one of those house museums still occupied by a last descendent of the owning family: The public rooms downstairs may be thronged by noisy crowds, but walk upstairs into the roped-off private quarters and all is empty and quiet.
The goodbyes were not very emotional. Dignity was preserved in part because the separation will be relatively short, in larger part because it's awkward to kiss under the appraising eyes of a curious construction crew, but above all because the mood is spoiled by the final pre-departure ritual: the instructions.
"You must think I'm an absolute idiot," says the husband.
"No, no darling, I think you are very clever about certain things," replies the wife, as she returns to the list. "Now be sure to water the wilting tree, sort the mail for bills, lock all the doors and windows before you leave ...."
To be fair, like wives everywhere, mine has legitimate grounds for suspicion. As I age, I'm getting -- not absent-minded -- but let's say increasingly intensely focused. For my birthday, my wife bought me a grand new barbecue. It arrived on a day when I had an important project due, and I walked back and forth past the emplaced machine at least three times without noticing it.
The real overhanging question though is the one that comes last:
"So what will you do while you're alone?"
Typically, I had not thought about it.
"I don't know. I have dinner with B----tomorrow night ?."
"Good. What else?" "I'll improvise."
Again, "improvise" is not an exact description either. The male animal is a simple beast, as predictable as the salmon. I used to
know a man whose business took him to New York City three or four times a year for a three-day stay. He made a point of always eating in the same restaurants ? in the same order! Day one was the Palm, day two, etc. I have no doubt that he ordered the same dish each time at each one.
There are rare men for whom being left home alone is a chance to bust out: head to the casino, hire hoochie-coochie girls, and drink the bottle empty.
Most of us, though, live in a rut, and being left alone is our opportunity to wallow in it. I spend an inordinate amount of time at the gym already. Now I can spend more! I can eat rotisserie chicken every night! I can walk around the house listening to audiobooks on my headphones without fear of my teenage son's ridicule!
You know the saying: "Moderation in all things, including moderation"? My variant: "Variety is the spice of life -- and of the most flavorful of those varieties is repetition."
It's all short-lived of course. Next week, I follow the family north, leaving the swamp of Washington, D. C., for the lakes of Muskoka. John and Brent will have the house to themselves: now they will be the ones home alone. They can hammer, bang and chew tobacco with nobody to look askance. As I said: We are simple beasts. Which is why most of us realize that while we may enjoy our short spells of being left home alone, it is not good for us to live alone. A rewrite of a slogan often seen on kids' sweatshirts aptly sums up the relationship between the male animal and his spouse: She's not bossy. She just has better ideas.
But what does happen every summer, in who knows how many houses across the continent, is the scene just enacted in my house this week:Wife, children, dogs depart for some cooler summer spot, leaving the husband alone to fend for himself.
In my case, "alone" is not really an exact description. As readers of this paper's Weekend Post will know, my house is a construction site this summer, so I have the famous contractors Brent and John for company. Still, Brent and John do eventually go home. And even while they are at work, the house functions like one of one of those house museums still occupied by a last descendent of the owning family: The public rooms downstairs may be thronged by noisy crowds, but walk upstairs into the roped-off private quarters and all is empty and quiet.
The goodbyes were not very emotional. Dignity was preserved in part because the separation will be relatively short, in larger part because it's awkward to kiss under the appraising eyes of a curious construction crew, but above all because the mood is spoiled by the final pre-departure ritual: the instructions.
"You must think I'm an absolute idiot," says the husband.
"No, no darling, I think you are very clever about certain things," replies the wife, as she returns to the list. "Now be sure to water the wilting tree, sort the mail for bills, lock all the doors and windows before you leave ...."
To be fair, like wives everywhere, mine has legitimate grounds for suspicion. As I age, I'm getting -- not absent-minded -- but let's say increasingly intensely focused. For my birthday, my wife bought me a grand new barbecue. It arrived on a day when I had an important project due, and I walked back and forth past the emplaced machine at least three times without noticing it.
The real overhanging question though is the one that comes last:
"So what will you do while you're alone?"
Typically, I had not thought about it.
"I don't know. I have dinner with B----tomorrow night ?."
"Good. What else?" "I'll improvise."
Again, "improvise" is not an exact description either. The male animal is a simple beast, as predictable as the salmon. I used to
know a man whose business took him to New York City three or four times a year for a three-day stay. He made a point of always eating in the same restaurants ? in the same order! Day one was the Palm, day two, etc. I have no doubt that he ordered the same dish each time at each one.
There are rare men for whom being left home alone is a chance to bust out: head to the casino, hire hoochie-coochie girls, and drink the bottle empty.
Most of us, though, live in a rut, and being left alone is our opportunity to wallow in it. I spend an inordinate amount of time at the gym already. Now I can spend more! I can eat rotisserie chicken every night! I can walk around the house listening to audiobooks on my headphones without fear of my teenage son's ridicule!
You know the saying: "Moderation in all things, including moderation"? My variant: "Variety is the spice of life -- and of the most flavorful of those varieties is repetition."
It's all short-lived of course. Next week, I follow the family north, leaving the swamp of Washington, D. C., for the lakes of Muskoka. John and Brent will have the house to themselves: now they will be the ones home alone. They can hammer, bang and chew tobacco with nobody to look askance. As I said: We are simple beasts. Which is why most of us realize that while we may enjoy our short spells of being left home alone, it is not good for us to live alone. A rewrite of a slogan often seen on kids' sweatshirts aptly sums up the relationship between the male animal and his spouse: She's not bossy. She just has better ideas.