What am I to do on what would usually be a date night when the lady’s out of town?
I could sit at home and weave baskets that look like my favorite movie villains, iron my socks, play peek-a-boo with Wicket and Pixie, invent new lyrics to old songs, build meat castles, breed guppies, try on everything in Diana’s wardrobe, watch documentaries about dinosaur sightings in the Congo, read the dictionary, learn to appreciate a spectator sport that doesn’t involve fictional gladiators, assemble a jigsaw puzzle of Spiro Agnew’s face, write messages on a dozen postcards and mail them to random addresses, microwave silverware, imagine how I’d win over Judge Judy if I were ever faced with appearing in her courtroom, practice the dark arts, mix up random stuff in the kitchen to see if it turns into something delicious, or sleep (perchance to dream).
I could think up new languages, dye my hair with Kool-Aid (oh, yeah!), phone unknown people in other states who share my last name, color outside the lines, drive to Canada, go whale watching, eat dessert first, speak to baristas using only Elizabethan colloquialisms, learn to play the pan flute, eat an entire jar of Nutella, swim the bay, hunt for treasure, contemplate world peace, hug a stranger, take pictures of my shoe in exotic lingerie locales around town, tap dance my way to victory, play Monopoly against myself, wear a Santa suit and go apologize to neighbors for being delayed by traffic, shellac a tuna, carve the entire Brady Bunch out of a family of pumpkins, repel down the side of my house from the roof, guess the weight of Portugal, reenact Silence of the Lambs with finger puppets, charm snakes down at the pet store, or try and scare myself with ghost stories.
Ah, what the heck? I’ll go to a party. But I miss Diana — even if her mustache is fuller and more impressive than mine (see below).