Bachin' It

I'm supposed to be on holidays right now. Our anniversary is Friday, and longtime readers know it's a tradition chez Breadbin to bugger off right around now and do some mooning of the honey. Alas, my new job threw something of a monkey wrench into our plans.

I blame it on Ottawa. This is either the fourth or fifth time we've planned to go to Ottawa, only to have something come up, last minute or no, and scuttle things. Frankly, I've lost count. Also, hope that I'm ever going to see what I seem to remember is a beautiful city ever again.

Of course, this time it isn't that I need a new computer, or the Breadbin needs a new lid, or whatever else has cropped up (again, I'd rather not remember). This time it's good news, in that I have a new job, that does indeed pay more than I was making after eleven years at my old one, and that also (I found out today) pays a Sunday premium, not to mention paying me for every minute I work. That I am awed and amazed by this policy should give you some clue as to how many unpaid hours I logged and slogged at my old job.
I'm enjoying things. I'm enjoying being able--at least until the snow flies--to bike home for lunch each day. But I'm working at this time of year for the first time in a decade because my boss had his holidays booked already. He went to Boston to watch the Bruins raise their Cup banner, the lucky bugger. (I say that as a Leaf fanatic who honestly wonders if his team will ever get within sniffing distance of Lord Stanley in my lifetime. It'll probably happen the year I get to go to Ottawa.)

Long story short, Eva is on holidays and I am most emphatically not. I have something like five days off this month--though I do have many short days, either four or six hours.

So Eva has gone up to her parents' place and I've got the house to myself. It's nice to be able to  sit here and blog without the television yammering in my ear, but honestly? That's the only nice thing, and it's really quite trivial.

I miss my wife.

The house feels wrong without her in it. Like it somehow sidestepped into a parallel, sadder, dimension. I sense it; you can just imagine how keenly the dogs sense it. Tomorrow evening, I will turn to our big galumph of a Tux and say "Mommy come Tux's house?" and his ears will shoot up, followed by his head, followed by the rest of his body as he throws himself into a frenzied Tux-dance that only he can do.  Georgia will feed off his excitement and wag her back end so hard she assumes a U-shape. And Daddy? He'll wag his tail too. In joy...and in relief. Didn't burn the house down, didn't lock myself out, all pets accounted for, everything in order, whew.


Aside: doggie grammar. The smarter dogs know rudimentary grammar, I'm sure of it. Tux knows who his Mommy is, he knows "come", he knows what "Tux's house" is....but only if I say the phrase in order will he commence Tux-dancing. Likewise, Peach knows the difference between "Georgia-ball"--God, I'm afraid to even type it in case she can recognize the words--and "Daddy-ball", which is what I say to get her to stop loving the Georgia-ball so fiercely and let Daddy throw the bedrooled thing.

In the meantime, one more mostly sleepless night. The only reason I've gotten any sleep at all the last two nights is because I've "borrowed" Eva's soft blanket, the one we call the Bonnie View blanket since it's just like the one we shared on our honeymoon. She has claimed it as her own because it's soft--she has the most sensitive skin I have ever imagined, let alone seen--and because it's light, which normally does me no good at all...I'd sleep really well with a grand piano on top of me. But lately the weather has taken a U-turn back into August...and besides, Eva's blanket smells like Eva. If you find that too mushy, it's your problem, not mine.

Also I'm trying like hell to get over a cold, In typical male fashion I have whined my way upstairs and downstairs over the last three days, but the only way I can get any comfort is to translate my whines into Doggish...which I don't speak very well. I'm sure my wife is thankful this Thanksgiving that she didn't have to listen to me moaning and groaning every time I hack and sneeze. But I'm not. Waaaaah.

Mostly, though, I just miss my wife. Her mere presence has always been a comfort to me. Eleven years in, I still catch myself looking askance at her and marvelling, what the hell did I ever do to deserve this woman? And I still can't answer the question.

Come home safe, love. We miss you terribly.