Home Alone

My dear sweet husband left me home alone this weekend for guy time in Vegas.  After a whirlwind of football games both college and professional he was exhausted and in much need of a break.

No, he isn't a coach.

And he definitely is not a player.

He is actually not affiliated with any team...in any sport.

Corey is a spectator.  A super spectator.  A wake-me-up-at-1am-to-tell-me-the-final-score spectator.

We were both exhausted.

Among other names, I call him Corey the German (if you understand the sports reference I'm hitting the wrong audience here).  He follows the stats.  He analyzes all the elements.  He picks winners.  He bets winners.  It is a lot of work.  And this is why the German needed to take refuge in a stress free, calm and relaxing environment.

It was the worst weekend of my life.  But I exaggerate.

But not really.

I am afraid of the dark.

Ever since I was six and I swear I saw two men in camo hiding under my bed with machine guns whose sole purpose in life was to shoot my feet (I overheard this in their conversations), I have been terrified of what might be waiting for me in the dark.  A lack of closet space in our apartment was not my only motivation for getting one of those beds where the drawers are under the mattress.  No place for disgruntled soldiers....but there is room for centipedes.

But I digress.

When Corey isn't here, who turns off the lights in the living room when I go to bed?  I do.  Who turns off the TV when I am finally ready to fall asleep?  Me.  Who streaks through the apartment screaming after finding out her buddies from under her childhood bed in California have followed her across the country and are now living under her couch waiting for the opportunity (husband being out of town, perhaps?) to finally carry out their mission?  I honestly have no idea who that could be, but it sounds pret-ty scary.

In other words, Corey is the buffer between light and dark that keeps me panic free.  Shame on him for leaving me without a buffer.

I must say, though, this was also the best weekend of my life.

I hogged the mirror in the bathroom.

I made a mess with my cereal.

When I got home Thursday and Friday night, I took my boots off next the couch. And when I got up to go to bed...run to bed, I left them there.

I used the hallway as a dumping ground for all of my theater "junk."

And for the first time since we've been married I didn't wake up in the middle of the night to Corey tossing around my elbows and knees because they had ventured into his back or butt, respectively.

It was peaceful....

Quiet.....

Lonely....

I only had the dog to come home to and share stories of my theatrical adventures, but his attention was focused solely on four things: poop, pee, ball, and hump bed.

The only sounds in the apartment were that of The History Channel or our rowdy downstairs neighbor.

And did I mention it was lonely?

It wasn't really the best weekend ever, although, easily the messiest.

You know, when I think about it, we have a pretty big mirror.

And it's not that hard to wipe my cereal crumbs onto the floor, pick up my boots and dump my junk in a less visible spot.

And I'm starting to function without eight consecutive hours of sleep.

I like it when he's here.

And I think I can tolerate another post-season trip, as long as I go too...



...just not to Las Vegas.