Barricading the door

For the past few weeks, I've been out of the country. In fact, for the past couple of weeks, my Bride and the Critter have been in the U.S. with me. In addition to living out of a suitcase for weeks on end, this means that I have not been surrounded by My Stuff. Despite all the pleasures of being around the extended in-laws (which really and truly is a pleasure for me. I don't say this (only) because I know some of my in-laws actually read the 'Groove. Until you experience it, you don't really understand that that many Filipinos under one roof is a magical event, leading to great love manifesting itself through truly ridiculous amounts of food.)

I have a visceral need to be around My Stuff. Long periods of time away from my own mattress, or my stove, for example, leave me nearly as cranky as a heroin addict after a couple of days off the juice. When I return, no matter how tired I am, I am often tempted to run naked around the house, just to experience closeness to my sofa and my massive desk. I generally refrain, but it takes two or three days before I'm willing to leave the house again and/or display any form of social behavior.

Returning after so long means that our Tivo-substitute (which is certainly no Tivo) is nearly full. 47 hours of American Idol (all of which seem to contain that Indian kid. Please. America. Cut it out.) Several episodes of Bones, Desperate Housewives, and Battlestar Galactica. And every episode of Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth.

Ok. I made up that last part. Our Tivo queue contains nothing but trash. But it's enough trash to ensure that I don't have to talk to another human outside of my house for the next week and a half if I don't want to.

Now if only there was a single freaking restaurant that delivered within 100 miles of our house...