True Story©… My Life in (Bad) Timing


… and we’re back!


     It should be noted that I spend roughly a third of my time alone with my dogs.  Wife Person™ leaves for work at 7am, and twenty minutes later I take Ava to my mom to drop off at school, from which she will also be the one to pick her up.  I am out and back before I clock in by 8am.  I am in the house by myself until Wife Person™ returns at about 4.  Carve out the eighty minutes I spend exercising before waking them and I’m alone with the boys 11.5 hours a day five days a week and there went 57.5 of 168 hours.

     It is further noteworthy that middle-child-by-birth-order life has already instilled me with the social awkwardness that allows one to become their own favorite company.  I say that to say that social cues have and likely will never be my thing, and that working from home will prove to have done nothing to fix this.


     Despite my normal isolation and my absolute comfort with it, so long as there is music, a podcast or some combination of the two and my breaking a frothy sweat, Wife Person™ and I LOVE to travel and/or eat.  Unfortunately, this means that I must emerge out into the public sphere and – ugh – people.
Last week was our early-anniversary trip, necessitated by the fact that Ava is home this week and we would need to be here with her of course.

     First thing here, of course, was a plane trip from Greensboro to Miami and then from Miami to Costa Rica.  A pair of two-hour flights, bifurcated by a 3-hour stop in the Miami airport.
The first leg of the trip was unproblematic.  TSA Precheck got us through the check-in unbothered, we sat in the airport prior to sunup and fiddled with our phones until we were called to board.  No problems at all.  Smooth sailing continued through the first flight, mainly because I had my music and a nap since we had been up and awake since 4:15am.

     Frankly, the stop over in Miami was mostly without issue.
I mentioned exercise somewhere up above, there, and a three hour holdover required that I visit a restroom to deposit my 10am constitutional two hours behind schedule.  My exercise and dietary regimen have done a bit of a number on my metabolism and I am about as regular as they come.  No problem, the bathroom was clean and no one was there to bother me for it.

Whoo, boy, but when we got on that plane, the problems came…

     First was the fact that THIS flight was the one where they feed us.
Wait…  I mentioned that I had my music rolling and this leg of the trip, I had switched from Gil Scott-Heron to DJ Quik.  Specifically, I was listening to Live at the House of Blues.  As anyone who has been around me when I have my big headphones on will attest, the world does not exist to me and I don’t hear a damn thing outside of those big noise-cancelling ear-speakers.  Stewardess makes it back to our row and Wife Person has been trying to get my attention.
Noteworthy is my fanship of Quik, I silently mouth the words to the songs as they play.  I have a tough time disconnecting my brain from one thing for another, especially not when I have been interrupted.

Wife Person™: “Phillip, she is asking what you would like to eat--…”


The stewardess’ face goes WHITE as a sheet and all the people around me on the plane blushed, no one would willingly make eye contact with me for the remainder of the flight.

“Willingly” was the operative word in that sentence, because I wasn’t done fuckin’ up.

     Belly full, I settled in and I needed to pee…  At the ripe old age of 44, I can hold a piss for an hour until we’ve arrived in an airport, no problem.
I mentioned before my weight loss and what it has done to my metabolism and digestion, right?  I ALSO had to fart.  I know that my farts can be heinous, and decided that I would be best suited to dispose of this one in the lavatory.

     Hey, did y’all know that the bathroom on a Boeing 737 doesn’t have an exhaust fan, and when you drop a deuce or rip a heinous fart in one, the people seated in first class are GOING to experience it olfactorily (< I just made that word up)?  Unfortunately, the demon had escaped my colon before I learned that thing about no exhaust fan, I tried to wait it out and stall to let it dissipate by going ahead and peeing while I was in there, but apparently my atomic farts are stronger than time itself.  I washed my hands and exited the bathroom and almost IMMEDIATELY the people sitting right next to it knew what it was.  One man cursed loudly after I was back in my seat.  He gave me the stinkeye for the remainder of the flight.
It seems that the 737 is a pretty large plane until someone farts.  My bad, homie.

     Off the plane, in the terminal, things were fine.  No more issues and no one tried to assault me for singeing their nostril hairs.  The ride from the airport to the resort was problem-free, as were the first few days of the stay on the resort…  The people working were courteous and accommodating.  None of the wildlife tried to attack Wife Person™, not even the VERY domesticated raccoons that I would colloquially name ALL “Clarence,” and if you don’t get the context of that I cannot help you.

Put a pin in that, it is coming back on Thursday.

Oh, but Wednesday!  We sat in on a not-a-timeshare-timeshare presentation and got some vouchers for some time in the spa, including a deep tissue massage.
To my surprise, I learned as we – Wife Person™ and I – entered the massage area, that they were to complete our massages totally in the nude.

Without getting into too excruciating a set of details, I am just gonna say…

The masseuses were consummate professionals and no situation came of this.

     Okay, so now it is Thursday, we have been here four days and have already set aside what we are wearing home and preparing to leave first thing Friday morning.
We got new “neighbors,” a newlywed couple named Chad and Katie.  Wife Person™ will tell you that for someone who doesn’t particularly care for humans, I am more than capable in my ability to read them to hold a conversation with most anyone.  What she will also tell you, though, is that my filter is often busted even when I am stone sober.  While she napped, I swam out in the swim out pool and met with the newlyweds, we spoke for a while, kind of making conversation and such, then…

Me: “Be careful with your trash…  We had room service for lunch yesterday and left the plates outside when we went out.  Came back and Clarence was actively ransacking the patio.”

Katie: “’Clarence’?”

Me: “The raccoons are apparently used to human interaction here.”

  it should be mentioned that this newlywed couple were Caucasians from OKLAHOMA.
My bad and shit.
She didn’t address it and I moved on from that chapter of the conversation without re-addressing it and neither did they.  Maybe they’re back home now and just now getting it, but I am long gone and no longer have to answer for it.

     We decided to spend some time on the beach after this.  We had kind of avoided it through the time there because once you’re on the beach, you’re OFF of resort property and therefore beholden to the locals trying to sell you shit you didn’t particularly want.  While chilling on the beach, and absolutely par for how my life goes, we were approached by a puppy.  Of course, I hit him with the “c’mere buddy” and naturally, he came.  He had on a collar so apparently he belonged to SOMEONE, likely one of the locals selling trinkets on the beach.
I learned in Vegas that you DO NOT take a picture with the superheroes or characters walking on the strip if you don’t want to pay them for the “service,” so I did not take a picture with the puppy.  Instead, I excused myself to go get us some drinks.

     Following some time on the beach, we decided we were hungry and went for lunch before heading back to the room, and that is where it happened…

Wife Person™: “Phillip, what the fuck!?”

Me: “It’s Jacques Cousteau!”

Wife Person™: “WHAT?!!?”

Me: “He adopted us on the beach, we have to take him home to meet Yeti and the boys.”

Wife Person™: “Take him back to the beach”

Me: “But--…”

Wife Person™: “NOW!!!”

Me: “But he followed me without even have to pick him up or even touch him, he loves us and we love h--…”

Wife Person™: “This is someone’s dog, Phillip!”

Me: “Ours, I know!  I named him Jacques, remember?”

Wife Person™: “And who is paying to get him home and answering to customs?”

Me: “So I guess I will take him back to the beach to find his original person/persons?”

Wife Person™: “Yes, yes you will.”


     All told, my social ineptitude was not so much a hindrance to our enjoying our vacation last week, but I don’t know how long it will take me to get over Jacques Cousteau.
Maybe she will let me get a puppy sometime soon?


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