So I tore through a six hundred page novel, three football games, and two seasons of Breaking Bad over the weekend.

When my wife got home from visiting her friend, the first thing she said was "Thanks for the pile of dishes." and "Has Calvin been wearing the same clothes for three days?"

The answer was yes and no.

They were the same clothes, but there was a point where he had put on jammies, I just didn't notice that he had put the same clothes back on from the day before.

Had he been kidnapped somewhere between the 49ers defeating the Cardinals and Walter White's third new windshield, I would have been hard pressed to tell the responding officer what clothes he had been wearing or really even what he looked like or what he answered to. I'm sure on some level this makes me a terrible parent, but I can't be asked to remember everything especially when the Cowboys are still trying to move the chains in the air when they have a top three running back and they're up against a terrible defense. (Although, I really dig Chip Kelly's approach, so I gots a little mancrush for the Eagles, and sorry Steve, but the Cowboys asked Kyle Orton to throw 46 times, they deserve the "L")

And, in my humble defense, not only had I emptied the dishwasher, but filled it and ran it and the plan was to have all the dishes done by the time she got home, so it's not my fault that her mother drives like a maniac.

But the place is clean. I've washed my hair at least twice. I didn't forget to take the trash out to the street and there were definite meals I made, so no one starved. I am not Ewan McGregor and there were no dead babies crawling on the ceiling.

But wanna know the weirdest thing?

The weirdest part is that over the two days and nights she was gone, I didn't check my email.

Not even once.

And I didn't go on Facebook.

Or check my website.

And I didn't write, and I didn't rehearse, and I didn't add a damn thing to the yellow pad I keep at arms length anytime I have an idea.

I spent a very unproductive weekend.

And I'm in no way sorry about that. Except that I am. I feel terrible. I feel fat and my head is cloudy and my ears are ringing from too much earbud use.

I feel lazy and slightly disgusted with myself because I could have easily added a plate of broccoli to last night's pasta, but I decided that the spinach in the meatballs was vegetable enough. Good god my finger nails need clipping, which I would have taken care of three days ago had I bothered to pick up an acoustic guitar.

I saw an article recently that natural human sleep patterns should be about 10.3 hours per night. Which, yeah, not exactly reasonable, but we currently average 7.5 and I just spent the last thirteen years nestled in the 6 or less area.

Late to bed, early to rise, makes a man grateful for coffee and lies.

So, theoretically, I'm just catching up on some lost hours and I don't feel guilty at all, except for the fact that I do.

In the world I came from, in order to get thing done, you either had to muscle through, delegate it out, or avoid it until it became a non issue.

I'm a muscle through kind of dude. It took me years to learn how to comfotably delegate it out, and a few more years to recognize when avoidence was best. And you may think that avoidence is never the answer, but trust me, situations fall apart with relative ease when no one is fanning the flames and you can be supportive or antagonistic, but there is no greater artillery than indifference.

(That piece of advice should in no way be applied to married life. A display of indifference to a married woman and you might as well throw a handful of mercury fulminate on Tuco's office floor: Season 1 Episode 6, if you need the reference.)

Yet now, the product is me. The situations, my own. And there's no one to delegate to.

So each day, each hour, I can either get off my ass, or update my Netflix queue. 

Both of which I plan on doing.


Read any good books lately?

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