Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Wifey Whittah

My wife left me today, but I knew it was coming. She always does this - moves in for a few days, then packs up her car and moves on to "more important things" like her family and her job in Denver. Bullshit Whittah, bullshit.
Saturday marked the day Whitney rolled up to my apartment in a miniature, white school bus (a.k.a. she felt the need to rent a Yukon to drive from Denver to Kansas City for Thanksgiving while her car was in the shop) and we were reunited once again. Whittah's actions from the previous night will remain largely undisclosed. All I will say is that her room was left in disarray, she woke me up with a phone call at 10 a.m. Denver time while she was in the McDonald's drive-thru ordering "a sausage biscuit, a hashbrown, and a giant ice water," and sent me a text halfway through her journey that said, "I puked. I feel better." A trip to and/or from Kansas is never complete without a roadside barf apparently.
I, on the other hand was completely recovered from my previous night's activities, which was quite evident when I answered the door unshowered in a bra and a white, spa facial mask. Whittah was impressed.
Lacey's birthday was Wednesday, so Kate and I had made the hour trek north to St. Joseph for the night to go on a mini bar tour. I'm not sure what it is about St. Joe that is so harsh on the skin - could it be the funny names they give their bars such as The Shaft and the Hi-Ho? Perhaps it's the Playboys they leave in the "lounge areas" for entertainment or maybe it's the abundance of mouth breathing beautiful people that lurk in the shadows of these establishments? Ooor, Lacey's cheap wine might have made me pass out in all my clothes and make-up again. Damn.
The birthday festivities continued in Kansas City both Saturday and Sunday night resulting in me being quite pissed off at myself on Monday morning.
Big Gay Andrew, while in rare form, performed a one man spelling bee Saturday night after consuming massive amounts of vodka. The butchering of such choice words as "Kalamazoo" and "homosexual" was caught on tape, yet the only two he spelled correctly, "Whittah!" and "penis" (how appropriate) were missed by Whittah the videographer.
Sunday involved dinner with Kate's dad, who suggested we smoke pot instead of drinking since all of the stories Kate told him revealed a shaky relationship with alcohol, then it was off to Tower Tavern where, as the only women in the bar, we enjoyed a night filled with sexual harassment.
I had been in a half assed battle with a sore tonsil for a couple of days and by Monday the tonsil had officially won. I now have a cold. Fuck. I'm usually good at fending these things off with Zicam Oral Mist, a.k.a. miraculous shit in a teeny, tiny spray bottle, but lets remember I said "half-assed battle" and mentioned a three-day alcohol soaked birthday party. The Zicam only has limited powers...
Whittah occupied her time while I was slumped in a chair feeling like death at work by doing all things housewifey. She left this on my Facebook wall:

"I have walked your dog, done laundry, and cleaned up your room. We are officially betrothed."

My response:

"Does this mean you're the housewife and I'm the breadwinner? Because if so, we're in deep shit."

I managed a short happy hour that night, took cold meds with sleepy stuff in them and proceeded to sleep for 16 hours, waking only to leave a few raspy voicemails for the guys at work and to attempt to blow the 600 pounds of snot out of my head. I was feeling human again, yet still a little head-detached-from-the-body, by last night and today I'm still clutching my Zicam and Tylenol Cold, but feeling as though this thing is on it's way out if it can survive Thanksgiving with my family.
Tonight the fam will start pouring in by the masses from California, Arizona and eventually Mississippi, Missouri and just across town to shack up at my parents' house for a good ole' Crown Royal guzzling, card playing, turkey eating, fighting over who gets which end of the butter-shaped-like-a-turkey, Hastings Thanksgiving - and I'm so EXCITED! While most people dread the holidays, I tend to get all sappy and I-love-my-family-tastic around this time of year. The Thanksgiving routine used to be a given every year, but things went down the shitter after Thanksgiving 2005, which is referred to as the year the phrase "Happy Fucking Thanksgiving" was coined when we all gathered for Thanksgiving at my parents' in Reno to repeat the previous year's hilarity and this happened instead: My aunt tripped over a curb, broke her hip and had to stay in the hospital forever and my cousin Josh disappeared right before he was supposed to get on a plane to Reno, then we later found he had committed suicide by jumping off a building in New Zealand - yes, shitastic and completely, randomly tragic.
I think we all swore off Thanksgiving for a bit, but things have changed - wounds have healed, my parents have moved back, there are new additions to the family and I'm just glad things seem to be headed back toward normal.
While it was pretty entertaining to see two medium-high maintenance women co-habitate in a space made for just one for four and a half days (so many heated styling tools I tell you!), I must set my wifey free to make room for the time I get to spend with my family these next couple of days. If she comes back, it was meant to be...

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