My husband has flown away to Egypt (having charmed his way into a business class seat by chatting up a flight attendant on his Logan–JFK flight). He'll be staying in grand, historic hotels that are former palaces. The weather is usually warm and sunny in January. The food is wonderful.
He has left me and the cats on our own for 10 long, dreary days.
P A R T Y !!
But only in a fashion. I'm not used to living alone; I don't think I like it. But I do seem to be unusually adaptable — take me anywhere that's reasonably comfortable and scenic and, after about two days, I feel like I've never lived anywhere else. After three days, I can barely remember where I DO live, and I never want to leave.
Adjusting to living alone takes about the same amount of time. Or less. Which is not to say I don't miss him terribly and long for him to return. It's just that there are some benefits to living alone that it would be foolish not to enjoy when there's opportunity.
1. The apartment stays very neat. Drawers and cabinets stay closed, shoes and clothes stay in closets, counters stay clear, the bathroom sink is unsullied by shaving cream. Now, our boy Possum likes to scoop wet food out of the other cats' bowls and eat bits of it off his paw, which leaves a mess all over the floor. I'm resigned to that. And a small pastry box holding a Lyndell's chocolate moon cake managed to fling itself from countertop to floor as we all slept, but that's all I had to deal with this morning. (It must be a male moon cake.)
2. Possum, Snalbert, and Snicky lavish me with attention. (And Wendy occasionally notices I exist, at mealtime.)
3. I can cook with ingredients my husband won't eat. First up on the menu: pasta with olives, goat cheese, and sundried tomatoes. I'll also be caramelizing onions and picking up some smelly gorgonzola and a few Iggy's olive rolls and in the North End. While I'm there, I might warm up in Regina's with a Formaggio Bianco pizza of my very own — four cheeses, fresh basil, no sauce, pure heaven.
4. The cats can listen to music that only they (and I) like. Wendy loves Joan Baez's plaintive English ballads. Possum is into The Clash. Snicky likes Bruce Springsteen, while Snalbert likes Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. My husband hates all of them, preferring the listless dronings of the elderly survivors of that '70's group Yes. But to each his own.
5. Marathon evenings of historical dramas and Masterpiece Theatre series via Netflix Play Instantly, on my laptop, on the sofa, under the cashmere throw. With the cats. And the moon cake.
And that's just about all there is to enjoy about being a Sand Widow. Hmm.
Nine more days until he comes home.