My wife and younger daughter are leaving town for a few days. They're going to Michigan for a "gals weekend," which means a lot of wine drinking and denigrating of husbands for the moms and who knows what for the teenagers. I imagine the kids' agenda includes a lot of loud music, sunbathing, eating of junk food and perhaps the discreet ingestion of a few illegal substances.

My older daughter will still be here but she's 21, attends a local university, has a part-time job and a steady boyfriend, so she's rarely home.

In essence, I will be alone, left to my own devices, at loose ends. There was a time back before my knees were shot, my wind was gone and my conscience didn't bother me, when leaving me home alone would have been a recipe for disaster.

This temporary abandonment happened frequently in the early years of my marriage. My wife was a dancer and was often on tour, sometimes for weeks at a time. As much as I hate to admit it I enjoyed those temporary breaks from married life. They gave me the opportunity to resume my carefree (a better choice of words than sordid) bachelor life and to give myself over to the Bum Gene which is deeply embedded in the male side of my family's DNA.

I'm probably exaggerating when I say that most of my alone time was spent in marijuana stupors or alcoholic dazes, but that seems to be my primary memory. Of course, my memory is not as sharp as it once was. I couldn't have stayed high and wasted for weeks at a time, could I? I mean, I must have done something constructive. I'm trying to think of something worthwhile I accomplished during my wife's absences and I can't think of a single fucking thing.

The sad truth is that I gave myself over to the old RIp 'n Roar — running the streets, closing down bars, toking like a Rasta man, with the occasional all-night poker game thrown in for a little exercise. I reconnected with old street buddies and road partners. I stayed up all night and slept until noon. I nursed monumental hangovers and and spent hours trying to find my car. I once even ended up in the emergency room of of Illinois Masonic Hospital, but I'll save that story for another post.

To be completely honest, I was always sort of relieved when my wife returned from touring. I had to take a break from taking a break. I was rundown, tired and burned out. I needed a dose or normality and my wife always provided that.

"Milo, honey, you look a little thin."

"Well, heh heh, I haven't been eating right."

"You look tired, too."

"You know I can't sleep right when you're not around."

(Going through the mail) "What's this bill from Illinois Masonic?"

"I don't know. Must be some sort of mistake."

(Eyeing me suspiciously) "You haven't been out partying all the time, have you?"

"Jeez, sweetie, why would you say that?"

Those wild days are long gone. As I mentioned, I don't have the stamina to carry on like a sailor on shore leave any more. Now, when I'm left on my own for a few days I tend to lead a more sedate existence. Instead of bars, I spend my time in bookstores. Instead of staying up until all hours of the night, I'm usually asleep by the time David Letterman's monologue is finished. Instead of guzzling Jack Daniel's I sip on Cabernet. Instead of dining on pushcart tacos and Maxwell Street Polish, I eat pasta, fish or chicken. And, these days, I always remember where I parked my car.

My wife will leave me alone over the Fourth of July weekend as well. She's going up to Minneapolis to visit her sister and spend some time with her dear friend Mary Beth Sundsted. I'm taking her absence in stride. I'm a changed man. I may even do something constructive while she's gone. Still, as the Fourth draws nearer, I can feel the Bum Gene tugging at my sleeve, whispering in my ear, telling me how much fun we can have while the Old Lady's gone.

Stay tuned.