Happy Friday everybody! As you read this, I’m most likely asleep in my bed. The house is quiet. I have the entire place to myself for the day.

How did your humble humorist get such a blessed day of respite from the usual household clamor? Easy: the kids are in school and it’s Conference weekend for Dr. S.

Conference weekend is my pet name for her yearly weekend marathon Continuing Education lecture series. If you’ve ever wondered about differences in medical and legal CE, let me dispel any myths for you: everyone’s still sitting there bored, listening to a lecturer drone on, and half the attendees are probably checking sports scores or playing solitaire on a laptop to pass the time.

These are the weekends where I usually promise myself I’ll catch up on all the movies I’ve missed, check out all the TV I never get to watch, and finally catch up on those books I wanted to read.

Unfortunately, the volume of the aforementioned material is so broad these days I’m left feeling like Robin Williams’ character in “Moscow on the Hudson,” breaking down over the sheer scope of selections in the coffee aisle at the grocery store.

Saturday and Sunday are different. My kids will be with me, which means I’ll be effectively shut in for both days. That’s perfectly fine by me; I relish the moments when my wife and kids are the only people with whom I must interact.

The kids are at the age and close enough to where the two have a sort of psychic mind meld over what mischief will drive their father the most insane. This is why I can’t take them anywhere on Conference weekends.

Fortunately, the last year means we can get everything delivered to my front door—even booze. Bye bye, grocery store trips! Hello, sweatpants all day long!

My kids are used to the routine of Conference weekends, which is nice. They come and ask me for stuff nicely, which is a change from the week’s usual screams of food orders and my return cries of “Goddammit I told the two of you not to climb on that shit!”

That’s a weird little touch of Southern life: you’ll hear parents cuss out their kids down South and never bat an eye once, but do it anywhere else in the country and you’ll get sideways glances for the duration of your stay in that area.

It’s also nice to have the attention of both kids, who usually forgo Dad’s affections and cheer excitedly when Mom comes home most days. Side effect of being the parent who picks them up from school, I guess.

Guess who gets the accolades when we have ice cream for dinner? Yep. Dads invented that and we keep it in our back pocket for when household crises hit Defcon 1.

Anyway, looking at my television, I see there’s at least two seasons of “American Horror Story” available for my consumption. “I Spit On Your Grave 6” is another viable pick for entertainment. “Heels,” the latest pro wrestling drama series from Starz, is another option.

Being the boring sort, I select “Night Court,” put on Season Nine, and prepare for my return to bed.

Before I drift off, I ponder what food will grace my doorstep for lunch. Brisket from the local BBQ place? Twice-fried Asian glazed hot wings?

Or do I go where angels fear to tread and visit Guy Fieri’s Flavortown Kitchen?

Flavortown it is, I think, as Harry Anderson takes the bench for another evening of Manhattan Criminal Court Part Two. There’s few times in life when a man gets to eat a bacon cheeseburger with macaroni and cheese on top.

If one doesn’t seize those moments as they come, how can one truly know joy? Or elevated cholesterol levels?

I’ll most likely wake up around noon when the Ring doorbell lets me know my obscenely-sized and overpriced burger from Flavortown is at my door. I’ll bask in the glorious meat sweats it produces while I watch grown men pummel each other for my entertainment.

Then around 2 I’ll head to the kids’ school, pick them up, win at being a dad yet again because there’s nothing those two won’t do for a pizza dinner, and have both in bed sound asleep well before Dr. S returns from the day’s lecture series.

Yep, there’s nothing like the quiet bliss of a house to yourself on a weekend where there’s nothing but time for you to focus on you.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I’ll probably be on the phone with some idiot fixing someone’s fuckup all day Friday, forget the Flavortown or the kids’ pizza, and you can kiss any chance of viewing “I Spit On Your Grave 6” when one child eventually has to stay home with the bug of the week.

Better to be realistic than live in some pipe dream.

Anyway, happy Friday everybody! Here’s to a better weekend, and at least you’re not a shut in for two days straight!

Someone should really send me (or my mean-ass editor, who really needs it more than I do) some brisket burnt ends or something. It’d be for a good cause.

See you next week!