My wife left me again.

This time for Las Vegas.

She mentioned something about dancing and meeting some friends named Chip and Dale, so I hope she has a good time.

Actually, work is taking her to “Lost Wages,” probably the worst place for someone who doesn’t gamble.

When we were in Deadwood, S.D., last summer, we spent a little time in a casino and felt completely lost. We had no idea what we were doing, and laughed at ourselves as we walked away empty-handed.

Besides, it’s not the gambling I would go there for, I would just enjoy being in warmer weather.

The other day she looked at her phone and said temperatures, “Were only going to be in the 50s.”

What? That sounds like heaven compared to the weather here.

The only time we were in Las Vegas was when we were at the airport waiting for our connecting flight to California.

There were slot machines in the airport, and I lost.

Gambling is a mystery to me. I don’t understand many of the games because they involve math, and that is not my strong suit.

I understand putting money into a machine, pulling a lever and losing — especially the losing.

Now, buying lottery tickets is something I understand.

I tell the clerk what I want. Go back to the store a few days later, scan my tickets and lose. Losing I understand.

I have won a few hundred dollars over the years, just enough to make me think this next ticket will be the big winner.

Of course, the amount I have won is certainly not equal to the money I lost, but I like to focus on the positive.

My wife will be in meetings all day during the conference, and the evenings won’t be spent in casinos, so she’ll have to find other forms of entertainment.

I have no idea what that will be since I’ve never seen Las Vegas outside of the airport, but I hear it’s nice.

While my wife is away, I will be at home with the dogs and cat, which isn’t as fun or as glamorous as it sounds.

The dogs do greet me at the door every time they see me, which is great, but once I feed them and let them out, I’m of little use to them.

The cat, who is 17 1/2 years old, is a cat, meaning I only exist when she needs something.

That leaves me alone to do whatever, which means trying not to fall asleep in a chair before bedtime.

I will make life as easy for myself as possible, and that means when it comes to feeding myself, I will make a big pot of chili that lasts all week. Leftovers are best.

I don’t remember bachelorhood being this boring the first time around, but now pets and hot chili get me through.


Patrick Murphy, editor-publisher of the Humphrey Democrat and Newman Grove Reporter in Nebraska, is a former assistant managing editor of The Telegram.