I have now begun my temporary status as a commuter. My commute is approximately 500 miles each way. Rather than talking to myself for seven hours, I was entertained on my first drive to work by Harry Potter book on tape and a wonderfully odd assortment of Christmas carols courtesy of Mike.
Now that I’m here in Connecticut, a sad, scary reality has settled in. My wife saw it coming. I, on the other hand, most certainly did not.
“Take all your clothes,” she said. “You’ll have less to bring in February.”
“Okay,” I said. “What a great suggestion.”
Translation:
“Take all your clothes. That way, I won’t be responsible for keeping them clean.”
“Duuuuhhhhhhhh. Okay. You sure are pretty.”
Treacherous female.
Another disturbing fact reared its ugly head yesterday afternoon when my father called and asked, “What do you want to do for dinner?”.
Not once in all of my careful planning did I consider this: I have to shop and cook for myself.
Now I have to remember if you heat the water before or after you pour it into the Ramen.
Bugger.
