As I mentioned in a previous post, I’m alone for 13 days. The wife and kids are in Florida.
This ain’t no vacation: I’m here, and they’re there, because I have a book due in early January, and it needs to be completed. So, instead of vacationing, I’m alone with my books, my clips, my notes, my dog.
Before I dropped her off at the airport, the wife said, “I left something for you behind the bar.* Look for it when you get home.” I got home. Looked left, looked right. Figured it was a note, or maybe a tiny something. But I found nothing. Called her, “I’m looking, but I don’t see anything.”
“You don’t see the bag?”
In fact, I did see the bag. But it was big, and stuffed with presents. I figured it was things we had for relatives or friends or whatnot. But, no. The wife—being the wife—left me a present for every day I’m alone, to help me get through book-writing hell. I opened the first this morning, and it was a canister of chocolate-covered bourbon balls.
Not sure the point here, except I friggin’ love my wife. She’s the absolute best, and though it may well sound like a cliche, I care about her 1,000 times more than I did when we were first married roughly 14 years ago. We try and keep things fresh and original, and she’s pretty much the master of the craft.
OK, gotta go. There are bourbon balls to eat.
* Our house has a small bar. Which is funny, because we rarely drink.