So it turns out I’m a bit of a slob

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 29/07/2017 (3286 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

There I was, sitting in my office cubicle, preparing to write yet another thoughtful column about my relationship with my ever-expanding stomach, when, suddenly and without warning, I received an insightful email from a concerned reader that stopped me in my tracks.

It said, and I will quote her directly: “Dear Doug: Please stop with glorifying your belly. Seriously. It’s not funny. Winnipeg does not care. At all. I have friends dying from heart disease.”

In light of this urgent appeal, and based on what I think I can safely call a “gut instinct,” I have decided that instead of glorifying my midsection — and if you have never seen it, it’s pretty impressive — I am going to write a heart-tugging column about a life-changing epiphany I experienced earlier this week.

Prepare to be extremely surprised, because it turns out I am a slob.

In truth, I had always suspected I might be a slob — the fact every golf shirt I own is coated with condiment stains was the first clue — but the slovenly reality of it has been driven home over the last 10 days while my wife, She Who Must Not Be Named, is away on a major road trip visiting friends and family on the West Coast.

I had to stay home because there was no one else to look after our two dogs, and because while my wife loves driving along winding roads in the B.C. mountains, I am the sort of person who rolls down the window and violently loses his lunch whenever the vehicle I’m in makes a sharp turn to avoid running over random wildlife creatures.

With my wife away for such a long stretch of time, the dogs and I have been forced to fend for ourselves, facing challenges we never expected to face in our lifetimes, such as operating the dishwasher, a stark reality that has forced me to recall the last conversation I had with my wife before she drove away:

My wife: “Honey, do you want me to show you how to turn on the dishwasher?”

Me (lying in bed): “No.”

My wife (frowning): “Are you sure, dear?”

Me: “Have a nice trip, sweetheart.”

We’ll get back to the dishes in a moment, but first I want to talk about food. I realize that some guys of my gender have a difficult time feeding themselves whenever their spouse is gone for a prolonged period. Fortunately, that is not the case with me.

The great thing is, whenever my wife abandons me, within an hour or two, our dear friend Pam Greenlay will show up at our door bearing enough home-cooked food to feed me, both dogs and several developing nations for at least a month.

Deep in her heart, Pam knows that, without her intervention, the lifeless, fly-covered bodies of my dogs and myself would be discovered lying on the floor in the den, a testament to the fact it is impossible to sustain life on a steady diet of chocolate chip cookies, taco chips, and reheated beans and wieners.

As regular readers will recall, assuming they are still taking their prescription medication, Pam is the kind-hearted friend who recently presented me with a special gift — a package of new Kraft Singles Bold Bacon-Flavoured thick-cut processed cheese slices, along with a six-pack of Lester’s Fixins brand bacon-flavoured soda pop.

The point is, the dogs and I have been eating high on the hog, but our survival is threatened in other vital areas, such as the fact every single inch of counter space in our kitchen is currently covered with empty pop and juice containers and dirty dishes stacked higher than Donald Trump’s ego.

The last time I peeked in the kitchen, I’m sure I saw some form of greenish blob sprout legs, climb out of the sink and skitter away to lurk under the fridge.

I would definitely do something about the mounting dish problem, but I am too busy trying to solve the underpants crisis. I will tell you about that crisis in a moment, but first I should apologize to yet another reader who recently sent me an email politely stating: “Doug, I am sick of reading about your underpants. I think it is just gross. Please stop!”

That said, the problem I am experiencing is that I have literally run out of clean underpants due to the fact that, as with the dishwasher, I am unable to operate our state-of-the-art washing machine and dryer, which have so many knobs and lights and dials that they resemble crashed alien spaceships.

This means that, every morning now, I am forced to switch on the lamp in our bedroom, hold a pair of already-worn undershorts beneath its glare, then frown at them as I try to determine whether, in a polite society, they can be pressed into service for one more day, even if they have passed their best-before date, so to speak.

Normally I can find at least half a dozen pair of relatively wearable undershorts hidden inside our wiener dog’s kennel, where she sits on top of purloined underthings in the same manner the fire-breathing dragon Smaug perched on top of stolen dwarf gold in The Hobbit. But that treasure chest was empty.

So the dogs and I are in a bit of a pickle at the moment, thanks to our recently discovered slobbish proclivities. My wife returns home Sunday, and odds are she will not be pleased if she finds our home looking like the inspiration for an episode of the TV show Hoarders.

On the one hand, I am thinking about hopping in the car and driving to the mall to pick up a new set of dishes and a gross of fresh tighty whities.

On the other hand, and this will sound crazy, I may just take a stab at cleaning up. My gut instinct tells me I am man enough to handle it, not that my awesome belly has anything to do with it.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca