Home alone

Casey's gone, away for three days for work, so I've got the place to myself. It's interesting how that changes things.

I sit on the other side of the couch.

I go to the bathroom with the door open.

I drink alone.

I turn the TV up a little more, not because I can't hear, but because I might be eating and crunching or typing and I want to hear it.

I play more Xbox.

I sleep in the middle of the bed.

I make sure to lock the door. Well, I usually do that anyway.

I have to double-check that I set my alarm.

I don't feel the need to rush home after work.

I talk out loud to myself.

I don't worry about making the place smell like popcorn or hamburger, if that's what I've chosen to eat most recently.

I check the TV schedule to see what sports I can watch.

I make sure to lug a cooler to work to finish off the Super Bowl party leftovers.

OK, I'm not complaining about the last one or anything, but I feel a sense of accomplishment that I managed to package the taco meat, tortillas, shells, salsa and sour cream in the rolling cooler with the shoulder strap (as opposed to the rolling cooler without the strap) and lug it into the office -- without breaking any of the taco shells, particulary those that were merely in a Ziploc bag, rather than still in the box -- without breaking one. And the guys love it, and the meat and sour cream and most of the cheese and tortillas were all gone by the time I had to come home, so that the cooler was a lot lighter for the return commute.

And I'm full tonight, that's for sure.

OK, now I'm confused. Getting off the subject -- well, changing it, really -- for a minute here, I'm watching Studio 60, and they're finishing with "2000 Miles" by The Pretenders. Isn't that a Christmas song? Yes, it is, because they've gotten to that part of the lyrics. What's up with that? That's weird, Aaron Sorkin.

Alright, I'm a little drunk. Three beers -- three Oregon Brewed Rogue Dead Guy Ales in two hours is close enough -- has done it.

Enough of this.