With my wife away and my dog and I alone at home I generally go to ground and absorb myself ain my cave with the chores and details of daily life. Who needs a social secretary anyway, let her enjoy California with her girlfriends, Cheyenne and I will be okay.
"Pizza? Brownies?" Chuck lures me from my lonely absorption like Winnie the Pooh chasing hunny. Oh, okay then, dinner it is, at sunset.
Wayne and Chuck got back from St Louis last month with all their treasures from Up North and a life lived in the Big City. This is, I am reliably informed, a civil war era chandelier hanging from the ceiling of this modern suburban home. I couldn't help but think of those stories told by tour guides in Key west of the ships that came to this little harbor on the southern tip of uninhabitable Florida where they dropped off Carrara marble and Venetian glass and French pottery and Spanish furniture and the millionaire ship owners (and wreckers) decorated their homes from those far away factories.
The dogs fell into a doze on the tile floor, while Cheyenne took up a position between me and the door, panting her plump little heart out and making sure I said goodbye before I left her behind. No such luck that night as I was not going home alone. We adults watched King Henry the Eighth squirm in the misery of widowerhood and he squirmed so much he didn't take his shirt off nearly often enough to hold Wayne's attention. I empotahized with him though as the sinbgle life is hard to adapt to.
The Tudors seems to be suffering the fate of too many expository stories, starting out with a rush of lust and yoiuthful enthusiasm then getting bogged down in 16th century politics and generally making me glad I live when I do, when dentistry is more than a pair of pliers and a strong right wrist. 
My wife's away, woe is me, the chores all fall on my shoulders but the Bonneville should be back in harness tomorrow in time for my commute. Cheyenne has been learning to stay home at night alone and she seems to enjoy it far more than I do when my wife is gone. She has the run of the house and the deck thanks to the dog flap and when I come home after a night at work she is passed out fast asleep on her recliner on the porch, dead to the world without a care in her little doggy mind. I need to learn from her once again, the virtues of adaptability and patience. This too will pass, in another week when the flight finally leaves San Francisco hopefully with my wife and Phil's wife both onboard. I am hearing disturbing reports that Santa Cruz is as delightful as ever. too cold though I hope, as I sweat rivers reorganizing the shed in time for hurricane season. Where's my wife with a cold glass of lemonade? 
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