Flying Solo

On being 100% partially competent

It’s nice, sometimes, to feel like a competent human. When my wife, Emma, is away (as she is this week, visiting her family in England), I want her to see how much I have it together. I can still do things, even without her. Our two teen children and I will be fine. I will keep them fed, and we will all somehow survive until she comes home.

Emma keeps FaceTiming me, though, with reminders. “Aren’t you supposed to be having lunch with Ron right now?” she asks me, when she finds me at home.

“You don’t need to follow my calendar from the UK!” I say. “We’re meeting in an hour, so I’ll be on time.”

“I just like keeping up,” she says.

This weekend, I’m hosting our annual July 4th party without Emma, which is a little overwhelming. She sent me the most detailed shopping and to-do list, which was so unbelievably helpful, and also infantilizing.

A few days before the fourth, a dear pal from Australia texts to say she’s in town, staying with an actress/filmmaker and her partner. She asks if we can all meet up, so I say of course, I’ll cook for everyone here.

I happen to admire this actress/filmmaker very much, so I decide to overcomplicate things and make pasta from scratch for these guests, a cacio e pepe recipe I’ve never tried, all in a three-hour window, including shopping for ingredients.

“It’s fine,” my eighteen-year-old daughter says, watching me flour the countertop and roll out the dough. “I’ll help you cook. Why are you being so stressy?”

“I’m not stressy!” I say, stressily.

As soon as we invite new people over, I immediately see our house in a less forgiving light. While the pasta dough rests, I step out onto our back steps. The exterior walls are peeling, with scraggy patches of bare wood I’m just now noticing. Our back yard looks like the rapture happened during playtime: bikes on their sides, soccer balls everywhere, randomly discarded flip flops and towels. When did all these weeds sprout from our walkway? How has everything suddenly gone downhill?

The kids move their bikes and balls while I start with the mudroom, hauling laundry and piles of things to their rooms. Admittedly, with Emma gone, I’ve let things slide a little. I’ve kept the kitchen tidy, but as usual, it’s a constant washing of everything, loading and unloading the dishwasher morning and night. Emma and I usually tag team this. The kids are here with their friends most summer days, so I’ve been in a steady state of cooking and cleaning. I love hosting them all, but have somehow let the rest of our house go derelict.

I roll the pasta out through the hand-cranked machine, then spend another half-hour tidying, all of which is very satisfying. As soon as everything is starting to look borderline presentable—now T-minus one hour until the guests arrive—my fifteen-year-old son comes to me, holding the electric dog clippers.

“There’s a slight problem,” he says.

He’s apparently decided to groom the smaller of our two dogs, Tito, who is a wooly gremlin-slash-ewok. There’s fur all over the front porch and entryway. It’s very sweet that my son has taken on this chore, and I don’t want to be discouraging, even though it is absolutely crazy to me that he’s chosen right now to do this.

“What’s the problem?” I say.

Tito emerges from under the entryway bench, with only his right side shorn, looking totally off-kilter and bonkers. “The clippers died halfway through,” my son says. We laugh at our ridiculous half-buzzed dog, then I help my son find the power cord for the clippers and get back to cooking. I shred a mound of pecorino, then crank a small pile of freshly ground pepper into a ramekin.

A few minutes later, my son is in the kitchen doorway again. “Daddy, there’s another problem.” Dear lord, I think, trying to remember how sweet it is that he’s taken on this admittedly pain-in-the-ass chore—without anyone even asking.

“Let’s have a look,” I say.

I step back into the hall, and our front door is now wide open to the heatwave, fur blowing into the house on a blazing hot wind, dozens of tufts wafting down the hallway like miniature tumbleweeds. As I proceed down the hall, grabbing at the fur floating past my ankles, things look even more grim.

“Is that blood?!” I say.

“I must’ve nicked his ear a tiny bit,” my son says. Tito is completely fine, not actively bleeding or distressed, just panting happily in the entryway. Apparently, though, he shook his head after being nicked, spattering droplets of blood on the entryway floor and walls. It looks like a canine crime scene.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” I say, trying to convince both of us. “It’s fine. He’s okay.” I grab the paper towels and cleaning spray and clean the walls and floor while my son tends to the dog’s ear with an unnecessary bandaid. He then grabs the vacuum while I stuff a giant wad of blood-specked paper towels and dog fur into the kitchen trashcan, then take the trash out. My son takes Tito with him into the downstairs shower to rinse off.

I head back to the kitchen, back to cooking. My son comes in again, five minutes later.

“Do we have any air freshener?” he asks.

“What for?” I say.

“Well,” he says, “Tito escaped from the shower and shook everywhere, and now the whole house smells like wet dog.”

That’s it. The pressure’s off, as our guests will be here in fifteen minutes, and there’s no chance of getting the house into some imaginary state of order now. Who cares? It’s a house, and it smells like wet dog. Teens and dogs live in it, along with a dad who does not remotely have it together. Why am I trying to pretend otherwise?

On the plus side, dinner’s in good shape. I put a serving plate out with some nice cheeses, spin the crackers out into a little crescent just like Emma does, berries in bowls, cornichons, Castelvetrano olives... it’s not bad! I am handling things. I light a double-wicked candle to counter the wet dog smell. My son, all cleaned up now, washes and cuts some strawberries.

“Everything’s looking good,” I say. “Thank you for helping.”

It’s now ten minutes past when my friend said they’d be here, which is, of course, the normal amount of lateness. Being compulsively punctual, I used to show up to dinner parties right on the dot, before Emma explained to me that this is not how sane people act in the world. Our guests are perfectly, reasonably late, and I’m happy with this, feeling relaxed.

I don’t drink anymore, but I’ve chilled some prosecco for their arrival. I polish the champagne flutes with a dish towel. Now they’re twenty minutes late, and there’s no text from my friend. This seems a little odd. I scan our text thread to double check their arrival time.

“The dinner smells good, Daddy,” my son says. My daughter comes into the kitchen to help with the sauce, stirring it, adding a bit more cheese. “Perfect,” she says, tasting it with a wooden spoon.

“I have to tell you something,” I tell the kids, putting my phone down on the kitchen island. “The good news is, we have some excellent homemade pasta, and we can serve it up on TV trays, and watch the World Cup together.”

“Where are the guests?” my daughter asks. “Why are they so late?”

It will kill me a little to admit to Emma what’s happened, how off the rails all of this has become, but she will love it so much. She will feel how essential she is, how much I need her. I will try to take pleasure in that.

“I got the nights mixed up,” I tell the kids, shrugging a little. “The guests are coming tomorrow.”

I feel dumb about all of this, of course, but the pasta is undeniably good. We all cheer for Croatia in a very exciting, heartbreaking game against Portugal. It’s a beautiful night. Other than having Emma here with us, what else could I ask for? I have everything handled. The house is partially clean, the dog is half-trimmed, and the blood is mostly gone. We are, as ever, semi-ready for anything.

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