I'm having a hellacious time adjusting to life at home. I get the Honey Do list from the Mrs., and I gripe a little 'cus everything starts with 'buy ___________." I am a cheap prick after all. On the upside, I no longer need to refinance in order to fill my tank. I gave the high-looking clerk at Cumby's a $50 for a 1/2 tank of gas, and, to my pleasure, got like $20 back. So I bought some scratch tickets, something I NEVER do. I promptly dirtied the clean seats on my truck with scratch tickets leaving and cursed myself for breaking my 'no wasting money' rule. Why I wanted to donate $20 to Massachusetts is a mystery. They'll probably just spend it on Crack.
I always get a little squishy around the edges at the start of vacation time. Sitting on the couch, watching "Ice Road Truckers," wife asleep on one side, The Boy drped over both of us like a throw rug, also asleep... that's the kind of shit that I think of when someone complains that I get paid too much. I'd rototill a 10-foot high pile of hookers to a coppery-smelling mulch to be able to have 1/4 of the nights to spend with my family that everyone else does. It's right now, early days, when I really have to confront the truth: I am the cat that is always on the wrong side of the door. When I am home, I am pulled to sea. When I am at sea, home beckons. It's just that there isn't much pull to go to sea when I'm still folding laundry that smells like a service station.
Take tonight, for example. The Wife has choir practice, so The Boy and I are going to cue up "Finding Nemo" and surf the couch for a while. That's the good shit right there.