My husband travels for work and for most of the time I was resentful because it seemed awesome. There have been a few times when I was like “Oh man you couldn’t pay me enough to deal with that!” I enjoy being home in the comfort of my house when the shit hits the fan. I can crawl into my bed and go into denial easier that way. There is no crowed to have to act like a well put together adult in front of.

One time he called me and said “There are no restaurants here, anywhere. I haven’t eaten anything all day. I saw that they had a vending machine I’m going to go and see what they have.”

He calls me later, “There was a dead rat sitting next to the vending machine. I didn’t get anything to eat. I’m just going to go to bed.”

You know times like that were far and few between but it was the chance you took when traveling for work. You just never knew what type of trip it was until you are on it and thinking “Yup this sucks.” and the wives at home do a little bit of a rejoicing dance and celebration, because we are up to our elbows in diapers and laundry because all of the children have gotten the stomach bug at once which means mom is next. I don’t really need to hear about the perfect creme brûlée that you just had with dinner. I ate cold kraft mac and cheese off of your daughter’s plate. So fuck off. So, Where was I? Oh yeah my husband’s bad trip. Insert slight curve at the corner of my lip as I think about my husband’s misery.

So this particular trip that I am writing about was when the children were much older. There was no reason for me to be a tiny bit satisfied and I truly could empathize with my husband. He was flying out to Oklahoma city and as he was on the plane, they were rerouted to Tulsa because there was an incident at the Oklahoma airport. He was trying to keep me abreast the situation and also trying to get to his hotel for his meeting the next day. He decided that he was tired of waiting around and he got a rental car and drove the rest of the way. He called me from the car and he said “I don’t know where my luggage ended up, but I’ll figure that out when I get to the hotel.”

“Okay! Drive safe!” I told him. I was worried because the incident at the airport was national news and I was concerned for his safety.

He calls me “Hey, I am being detoured around the security so it’s taking me longer than I expected. I should be there in an hour or so.”

He calls me again, “So I’m lost and the GPS in the car just fucking died so I am going to have to use my phone, don’t call me.”

He calls me again, “I got the GPS working so it looks like I missed a turn, I am going to be there in an hour.”

An hour goes by and I try calling him and it goes directly to voicemail. I call again an hour and a half later and again directly to voicemail. Two hours later and I’m getting worried. Two and a half hours later he calls “Hey, sorry I just got to the hotel. My phone died and I was waiting in the lobby for my room and I charged my phone. I got here and they didn’t have a room ready.”

“Isn’t it like five-thirty there?” I ask.

“Yup! I guess they are booked solid. Oh wait they are waving at me. I gotta go!”

“Okay!”

“I’ll call you when I get to my room!”

“Okay!”

I am now hanging with my girls and watching something on tv. I look at the clock and it has been a substantial amount of time, more time than expected. I wonder if they got him a room yet. I text him and ask “Did they have a room for you?”

The text goes unanswered. I look at my girls and they were laughing about something on the tv show. I keep my eye on the time and I start to get a little frantic because this trip has been an absolute shit show from the beginning.

I text again. “Are you in your room yet?”

No response.

I start looking for things to do like mop the floor to keep me busy. I am pace-cleaning and trying not to get too upset. Finally my phone gets a text and it says “I’ll call you in a bit.”

I wait anxiously for the phone call.

“Hey, sorry! You would NOT believe what happened to me.”

“Why? What happened?”

“So they call me over and tell me that my room is ready. My phone was dead as soon as I took it off the charger. I take the elevator up to the floor. I get off of the elevator and I get down to my room. All I wanted to do was to go to the bathroom. I unlock the door and I am walking through with my briefcase and there was some guy sitting on the bed eating pizza.”

The phone buzzes.

“Oh hold on. This is the airport calling me back about my luggage. I got go!” click.

I look at the phone in my hand and I’m like ‘Wait? What about the man with the pizza? Are you best friends now? Do the kids get to call him Uncle Pizza Guy? I need answers, damnit!’

My oldest looks at me and says “Are you okay?”

“Yes, so dad has had a rough day and he just got to his room and some guy was sitting on the bed eating pizza and then dad had to go.”

My youngest “He probably didn’t want the pizza to get cold!”

“Probably!” I say and we laugh and laugh. “No he is trying to locate his luggage. You know your father he never checks his luggage and every time they make him check it, they lose it!” we laugh again. One time they lost his luggage in Ireland and when he came home he had no car keys. We had to meet him at the airport to bring him his spare set.

The phone rings again. “Hey, so you’ll never fucking believe it! They lost my luggage. I’m going to go and do some shopping and probably grab a bite to eat.”

“What about the pizza? Did your roommate not share?”

“What?” he asks. In his world the pizza guy was so long ago. To me it just happened.

“You know, your roommate?” I ask

“Oh, yeah, that! Look I got to go and see if I can’t find a suit for tomorrow and the shoppes are probably going to be closing soon. Can I call you when I get back from dinner?”

“Okay!” I say so disappointed because I just want to hear the story of his day. Normally we have the same conversation:

“How was your flight?”

“Uneventful. The best kind of flight!”

Yes he says this every time. But TODAY it was eventful and he doesn’t have any time to talk about it. I need to know your story, it sounds like a doozy and I love a doozy of a story. They are my favorite kind. But My husband is not theatric and so his doozy stories have no panache. It’s sort of a pet peeve of mine. If you are going to tell a story make it suspenseful. I mean it’s life and that’s pretty exciting any way but you could tell it like it is a fine novel.

My husband lets me go and I sit there with my girls and we make up our own story about Dad’s trip.

“Maybe the guy was a fugitive hiding in dad’s room!”

“Maybe he was there to fix the tv and it was also his dinner break!”

“Maybe he’s going to help Dad find a suit.”

This goes on for hours until finally the phone rings again. “Hey, you never guess what?”

I’m so excited because this day gets better and better. I am going to one day write about it in my blog that I will get a few years from now. It’s all very blog worthy, don’t you think, narrator pans over and looks at the audience with mirth!

“What?” I ask with my spine tingling waiting for the next mishap in my husband’s trip. I mean with great concern.

“I bought a suit right off the rack!”

I wanted to hang up right there. Don’t fucking tell me this story. What about the man? What about the pizza? Where are the main characters in your story? The suit shouldn’t be your main fucking character.

He’s still talking to me about his suit. Right off the rack and it fits. It’s not too bad! I bought a tie and underwear. I had to get toothbrush and toiletries, because they lost my luggage you know.

If I didn’t want to know about the pizza guy so badly I would have hung up on him. I don’t care about your underwear and shaving cream, what about the pizza guy?

I interrupt, “Tell me about the pizza guy!” I may or may not have shouted.

“What pizza guy?” he asks.

“The fucking guy with the pizza sitting on your bed? Tell me about him. I have to know. We ALL have to know!”

“Oh!” he laughs. “Turns out they gave me that guys room and I had to go down to the desk and that’s all settled now.”

I am very disappointed in my husband at this moment. Why? Why can’t you tell a story? Why do you just say things and not tell stories as they are intended? I don’t really get to go very many places and I am living vicariously through you and your story telling, Sir, is absolute fucking garbage, I think politely.

“That’s it?” I say and I almost hang up on him.

“Well, no!” he says and he knows that I am me and I enjoy a good story. “So I open the door and he was sitting on the bed eating pizza. He was like, ‘Hey!’ I was like “Whoops! Sorry man, they gave me the wrong room!” He laughs “Then I go down and they give me a new room.”

Me fuming because I could have told this story so much better. I  breathe because I am being an asshole and I totally know it. This man has had a very stressful day and I am frustrated because he is not entertaining me well enough with his stressful day tale.

“Tell me about your suit.” I say because he seemed very excited about it.

“It’s not that bad. It’s dark blue and it has pinstripes. I think you would like it. Then I had to find a shirt and tie. I went with a white shirt because white goes with everything…..”

He talks about his clothes for like a solid half hour. This man walked into a hotel room with his key and found a Man eating pizza while sitting on his bed and he talks about that for like a millisecond, but his Off the rack suit that he purchased gets a full thirty minutes. That’s who I married. That’s who I love. He is a terrible story teller and yet he makes me happy. He saved money on his suit and he is happy about that. And because there are no other suits to compare it to he thinks it is just like the ones he has tailored. Until he gets the suit home and it is wrinkled and he puts it next to his other suits. This glorious suit hangs in his closet to remind him of the great find in his off the rack suit at some department store that saved the day for him.

It reminds me of the time my husband walked in on some guy eating pizza in his hotel room. That off the rack suit means so many things to us. That off the rack, “pizza guy” suit as I call it whenever I see him wearing it, is a legend around these parts. He seems so proud of himself at finding a suit that quickly. That suit is going to be passed down from generation to generation and we will tell the story as it’s intended because I have been learning about genetics and I’m certain that story telling is selected over suit buying and so it will choose my genes to carry on. As well as the tale of the guy sitting on the bed eating pizza, you sir will go down in infamy for generations and generations.

The important part was that my husband made it home safely and he lives to tell the tale…although his delivery needs some polish. But I am glad he was safe. Also he got his luggage back so he traveled home with it. Also I am able to add some polish to his story and carry it on for years to come. I still ask him about the details about the pizza guy.

“What was he wearing?”

“I don’t know!”

“What did he look like?”

“He looked like a dude eating pizza!”

“What was his name?”

“I didn’t ask. Why do you need to know his name?”

“Why don’t you need to know his name? I mean you practically spent the night together, you would think that you would get to know his name!”

“I was never going to stay in that room! That was never going to happen.”

“Did he share a slice of pizza with you?”

“Becki, don’t be all ridiculous about this. I walked in and was like ‘Whoops!’ and I left. I wasn’t about to have a conversation with the guy.”

I’m very disappointed, I would have had a conversation with the guy. Heck I talked to a lady at the grocery store for an hour because she was buying key lime pie yogurt. That shit is delicious. Shout out to my girl Marie, you are a great yogurt connoisseur and a true friend, I was going to just go with raspberry. She saved my life.

Moral of my story: If you ever walk in on a guy eating pizza while sitting on a hotel bed, get some details and tell the story with great flare. No one wants to hear about how great your suit fits without being tailored….that is a snoozy story and we only like doozy stories.

Until next time 🙂