Dear Diary,

   Well, I got a pretty good peak behind the curtain at how things would have gone in the house while I was away. (I postponed the planned spa weekend in Arizona that I’d won in a Covid vaccination contest sponsored by my health insurer, as a result of developing some last minute cold/flu symptoms.) So, instead of Reid being home alone – there’d been a Macauley Culkin gleam in his eyes all week – it would now be just another ordinary weekend home for us.

   But Reid immediately began exhibiting behavior that suggested he was still locked in home alone mode. I came back from the store that first day and noticed the toilet seat in the bathroom was left up. I kept quiet, though, to see what else might have decomposed in our little home had I been away.

   The next thing I noticed was that, at 2:00 pm that same afternoon, he was still in his jogging clothes from the morning. (My historic 12 o’clock rule dating back to Mike, having been honored more in its breach than adherence with Reid, had long been abandoned. But I could generally corral him into the bathroom to change by 1:00 pm., occasionally with the help of a neighbor’s sheepdog.)

Come to find out, Reid had taken a picture of the bed he had made when I’d left early one morning for a doctor’s appointment. Get this: He was going to send it to me every morning I was away, to “prove” he was making the bed.

   The fact that he’d also taken chicken tenders out of the freezer for dinner without his usual checking in with me for what I might want offered a predictable insight for what his dietary choices were going to be. (I’m expecting his famous “trailer park pizza” (pizza sauce, mozzarella and pepperoni on an English muffin slice) and burger and fries would be rounding out the weekend’s dinner menu now.)

   While I was making up the bed, as I normally do anyway, I thought ruefully how that wouldn’t be happening without me around. Come to find out, Reid had taken a picture of the bed he had made when I’d left early one morning for a doctor’s appointment. Get this: He was going to send it to me every morning I was away, to “prove” he was making the bed. “Reid, did you really think I’d fall for that with the ‘Live, Love Laugh’ throw pillow placed upside down three days in a row?” (He sheepishly nodded that he hadn’t thought of that.)

   As another “tell,” I handed him a shirt on a hanger I’d just taken out of the dryer. He promptly hung it on a doorknob. The final indicator, though, was all the various scratchings and eructations that he normally shielded from my observation were flailing and flying around like he was living in a frat house.

   Well, I better go now, Dear Diary. It’s Monday and it’s trash day. At least now that chore will be completed on schedule.

   I’ll  be having nightmares, I’m sure, about what I could have come home to. I know now, I’m not wrong about what will happen to this house, should I go first.

   That poor cleaning lady! (He claims he’d have one come in once a month.)