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I seem to recall having heard from some reasonably reliable source that it is not good for man to be alone. Back before we had kids, I sort of enjoyed it when my wife Hollywood went out of town. It's fun to eat out three meals a day. It's fun not to bathe or change clothes. It's fun to plant myself in front of the tv and only get up to get the pizza from the delivery boy. Best of all, there's nothing quite like that warm, fuzzy sense of accomplishment I get when I see the pile of snack food wrappers I created grow and grow until it envelops the coffee table, creeps up on th couches, and gradually works its way from the living room down the hallway. Only then do I get some inkling of how Joseph B. Strauss must have felt when he drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, or how Michaelangelo must have felt when he looked up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
This weekend is the same old song and dance, with one minor variation. Hollywood forgot to take Pixie with her. At least I assume she forgot. I can't imagine she would purposely subject her darling two-year-old to the emotional anguish, not to mention the malnutrition and possible rickets, that would inevitably be the sad result of a weekend alone with dad. So far, Pixie has handled it pretty well. She has asked where mom and Cher are a few times, but I have managed to distract her by telling her that they are never coming back, that it's just me and her against the world, and that sort of tripe. She took the news pretty well, and I am confident she'll start talking again in a week or two.