My parents are back home, which means life has returned to normal. For a few days, anyway. Tara is headed to Nevada on Wednesday for her sister’s wedding. Initially I thought I’d be dealing with an aging cat with multiple health issues, so we decided it was best I stay behind. Sadly there is no Sydney to take care of anymore (sob!), but we do have two very energetic young cats who are a handful in their own way.
They sure are cute, though.
I’m also saving up my PTO for September. Back in 2020, we’d planned a family reunion in Rapid City, but COVID happened and the reunion did not. An uncle and an aunt began floating the idea again earlier this year, so I reached out to everyone, and long story short: they’re all Wisconsin-bound the week after Labor Day. Better three years late than never, and this location is more ideal anyway, because: cheese.
I’m a little worried about my impending alone time, because left to my own devices, little misadventures tend to befall me, often involving underwear. There was the time I inadvertently wore my boxer shorts backwards when Tara was visiting family in Seattle. On another less-than-auspicious occasion when she was in Nevada, too much gin resulted in me falling asleep after just a few bites of a labor-intensive meal I’d made myself, then dashing outside in nothing but underwear a few minutes after midnight because I’d left the sprinkler running for something like seven hours.
I’m telling you, my wife is the only one who can save me from myself. I’ll try to be a responsible and properly dressed adult this time, but I make no promises.
She and I were talking about how we approach these extended absences from one another completely differently. Whenever I travel for work, she likes to veg out in front of the TV watching things like Legally Blonde while eating Kraft mac ‘n cheese, whereas when she’s gone I plan big outings and elaborate meals. In my defense, this is the one time I get to eat all the foods Tara dislikes. It’s a long list because I am married to the world’s pickiest eater. My wife makes a fussy 5-year-old look as adventurous as Anthony Bourdain when presented with a plate. I may be exaggerating, but only slightly. I will take advantage of her absence by cooking up spicy dishes and beans. Which isn’t to say I don’t eat those things around her, of course, but now they get to take center stage. I’ve stocked up on Frank’s RedHot and Bush’s beans in anticipation.
With no guests to entertain and Tara’s impending trip looming, we decided to hang out at our favorite riverfront tavern on Friday evening. Nothing helps you wind down a week better than cheese curds and Brandy Old Fashioneds, and if that sentence doesn’t make me an honest-to-god Wisconsinite, nothing will.
After a few hours it was time to head home, but we decided on a whim to duck into this little bar we drive by virtually every day. It’s less than a mile from home and we wanted to check out the vibe.
The vibe, it turns out, was very divey.
I’m not saying this is a bad thing necessarily, but it’s the type of locals-only place where everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came. Pretty cramped quarters, the only food little bags of potato chips hanging from the ceiling. The regulars weren’t afraid to duck behind the bar and help themselves to things, and there was a dog hanging out. Not just any dog, mind you; a Great Pyrenees that was closer in size to a small horse. She was super friendly and loved the attention, though.
When I ordered my drink, the bartender (who vaguely resembled Joan Jett if Joan Jett had just spent 27 hours basking in the sun) asked me if I wanted any olives.
“Thanks, that would be great!” I said.
So, Joan Jett reaches beneath the bar and drags out this giant Costco-sized tub of green olives. I was about to turn to Tara and whisper in her ear, how great would it be if she just plunges her hand into the jar and grabs a fistful of olives?, when she just plunges her hand into the jar and grabs a fistful of olives.
A lesser man might have been repulsed, but you have to remember, I’m the guy who eats breakfast off the sidewalk. Besides, I figured the alcohol they were swimming in once they were submerged in my glass would kill all the germs anyway, so I didn’t even hesitate and ate all three.
Fun stop, but it probably won’t make our regular rotation. At least it’s convenient and walkable.
How do you spend your time when your significant other is traveling without you? If you’re married to a picky eater, what compromises do you make? Got any fun or embarrassing underwear stories to share? Knowing my propensity for getting into mishaps, what advice would you give me for the five days Tara will be gone?
Mark My Words 
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