Girls night out

Editor's Note: Commedienn
Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

As I write this, Paul has been overseas for nearly a week. He’s expected back tomorrow evening. When he patted my hand and said, “I’m going to miss you!” I felt a quick surge of guilt because, well, I have the house to my own!

Oh, bliss! Don’t get me wrong: I love the man but every woman can relate to coming in at the end of a tiring day and seeing the kitchen just as immaculate as she left it. No crumbs scattered on the countertop, no greasy knives or plates heaped in the sink, no slowly-souring milk forgotten to be put away.

Obviously, the toilet seat is down but, even better, no wet towel crumpled on the bed and no sweaty socks dropped on the floor beside the washing machine.

This, I’ve never understood. I mean, the washer is right there. All you have to do is lift the lid and drop the articles inside. It does all the work: suds, rinse, everything, but it does not and never will project a hand that comes out of the top and pick up clothes left on the floor.

Secondly, there’s television. I’m quite fortunate: Paul and I have very similar tastes (except basketball) and share a penchant for BBC America. We also enjoy reading. However, we both consider ourselves slightly intellectual and snottily refuse to embrace pop culture so it is with great guilty relish that I have watched “The Girls Next Door” on E Entertainment Television, which chronicles the lives of three Playboy Bunnies sharing the Mansion with Hugh Hefner. You know what? It’s fascinating! I realize that their days consist of romping around frequently topless and shopping (not at the same time), but they seem genuinely kind and they’re not hurting anyone. Well, perhaps Hugh. I can’t imagine being 80 years old and having three girlfriends under the age of 25. No wonder he’s always in his pajamas, the poor man’s exhausted.

So I’ve rather fallen for these girls and, with a sigh, realize I can’t watch them ever again if I want to keep Paul’s respect. If I let the show linger on a nanosecond longer than casual channel surfing, he would eye with me with great disappointment, pick up his class of Volnay and the John Adams’ biography he’s currently reading and leave the room.

But tonight, between “Masterpiece Theatre” and “Clatterford,” I shall gleefully tune into “The Girls Next Door” for a final viewing and open a bottle of Chardonnay.

Here’s to you, girls. By the way, how on earth do you get them to do that? Do you use tape?