Another play-at-home Blogger Idol assignment. This is a day in my life, from the perspective of a man. I promise my next blog will have recipes and pictures of real food in it!

I awaken slowly, confused. What the…oh, yeah – I’m in the guest bed. She pissed me off last night, so I kept my distance. Crap, it’s my turn to let the dogs out and make coffee. Am I still mad enough to make her eat oatmeal for breakfast? Probably not. But I’m not caving in and cooking bacon and eggs.

There’s time to read my new Hunting magazine and take a hot shower before I have to head to town this morning. She needs deodorant, a new toothbrush, and a prescription filled, so that means I have to go shopping. What’s with that? I should make her go get her own stuff – I’m not her daddy! Sheesh. But I do have to drop a box off at the post office, and she’d never figure out how to do that, so I guess I’ll have to make the trip.

I clean up the bacon and egg dishes and brush my hair. I can’t find my other brown shoe. How can there only be one brown shoe there? I’ll poke around under the bed with a hanger, because I’m sure as hell not going to bend over or get down on my knees. Nope. No brown shoe. She offers to help me find the other shoe, but I know that’s just to show that she’s reasonable and doesn’t hold a grudge about last night, so I find different shoes instead.

Off to town. I sing loudly to Clint Black, and almost sideswipe a truck that’s working on the dirt road because I’m looking for deer instead of watching the road. Same to you, a#*hole.

Walmart on the first of the month. Great. Looks like a geriatric ward in here. I’m just going to get in and get out. Medicine, toothbrush, deodorant, that’s it.

Look at the line at the pharmacy. Lines suck. This is taking freakin’ forever. HUH? Oh. McKinnon. M.C.K.I…huh? Oh. My birthdate. (Whoa. I have to look around and see who can hear me. You just never know – one of these nut-jobs might steal my identity.) What? Huh? Oh. I’ll pay up front. It’s HOW MUCH?

Okay, gotta find the toothbrushes. Hey! I am driving MY cart on the right side of the road, people. YOU are going against the traffic. How can a stupid toothbrush cost so much? I’ll get her the store brand so I can save a few cents and listen to her complain about it for three months.

There are way too many people in here. I can SMELL these people. And I’m in the stinkin’ deodorant aisle even! I’d better grab some chicken food while I’m here. Oh, and batteries for my game camera. Beer, and maybe a box of ammo.

How am I supposed to figure out how to run my card through this machine and put the bags in the cart at the same time? Huh? It’s HOW much? I only got four lousy bags of stuff. There’s not even any meat in there! No, I do not want to put the beer back.

What the…did someone bump their door into my truck? Yep, that’s a microscopic scratch. Next time I’m parking all the way down by the road with the motorhomes. There are too many people here. Yeah, I know the arrow is pointing the other way. I’m driving down an up aisle in the parking lot. Get over it, a#*hole.

She meets me at the car to help carry bags in. Still sucking up. Then she unloads stuff onto the counter. I tell her the same thing every time I bring groceries home: put the stuff away or leave it in the bags and I’ll do it. She never learns. Now I just have to move everything from the counter to the fridge. Sigh.

I’ve been gone for hours, and it looks like she hasn’t done a thing. Not.A.Thing. I’ll make lunch, check my e-mail, and then go dig up the sweet potatoes before the frost hits. She wants to know if I bought bread. Not at $4 a loaf, I didn’t. I’ll make some this afternoon, after I pick the ripe tomatoes and feed the chickens.

I’m really stoked because I made a giant casserole of chicken spaghetti yesterday, so I don’t have to cook dinner tonight. That will give me an extra hour to write my blog and check for responses to all of the ranting e-mails I wrote to everyone holding a political office in our state. Maybe I’ll take some time to send raunchy, untrue, right-wing propaganda to a lot of close friends that I’m tired of.

The bread’s rising, and it isn’t any of that 7-grain stuff. This is good old white bread. The pets are fed, and I’m going to crack a beer and sit in the recliner farting lightly while I watch football. Okay, maybe not lightly.

I just heard the bedroom door slam.

Lovin’ the guest room!