So OK, the week started off with a yuk- (and yuck-) worthy anecdote. But believe me, it was no trouble. I'd looked forward to Solo Week for a long time, mostly because seven years of parenting has taught me that I really like this stuff. I like getting the boys ready for school, and mingling with other parents at drop-off. I like giving TwoBert the Big Daddy Squeeze right after he gets up from his nap. I like all the mundane household cleaning and erranding. I don't know what that says about me as a man, and whether I fell off the bed a few too many times as an infant, but dammit, it makes me happy.
After the clog was dislodged, everything absolutely did all go downhill from there. And by downhill, I mean it was great. I don't get why people refer to "downhill" as a bad thing, since there's no such thing as a "downhill battle." But then again, I don't get why people substitute "hopefully" for "I hope," or say they "could care less" about something, or use terms like "verbage" and "foilage" and "intensive purposes." But that's just me, your friendly neighborhood SAHD wannabe/usage nerd.
We had a few revelations during the week. I'm happy to report, most importantly, that Robert seems to be over A-Rod. I offered him his A-Rod t-shirt to wear to school, and he roundly refused, adding: "Why don't you give this to some jerk who likes him?" This could be an all-important step toward curing his Yankophilia. And TwoBert, ever the philosopher, is impressed by my beard and wants to know why I can't grow one on my head.
But the week's signature flourish came when I Netflixed Charlie Kaufman's latest, "Synecdoche, New York." After I'd finished cleaning my ex-wife's bathroom, I saw a character (and this isn't a spoiler, given the film's complexity) become obsessed with cleaning his ex-wife's bathroom. I was sucked into meta-reality, wondered openly whether anyone was staging my own life, and spent the next half hour scrubbing my brain parts out of the living room carpet.