Posted on October 28, 2009
Hitched!
I’m writing this at noon on Wednesday, October 28, 2009 and I have been a married man for three days, seventeen hours and thirty minutes – but who’s counting? I’d love to say that it’s been a great few days and some-odd hours, but I’d also love to say that I have adamantium bones and can fly. Some things just ain’t true, no matter how much we might want them to be. And, to say that the past three days, seventeen hours and thirty minutes of my life have been spent enraptured by the warm and glorious embrace of matrimonial bliss would be like standing at the tippity-top of Liar’s Mountain to shout fictitious truths down at the heart of the world. The sad reality is that, for the past three days, seventeen hours and thirty minutes, I have been living a Greek tragedy.
The wedding itself was wonderful, with only one tragic crisis marring what was an otherwise perfect ceremony. Moments before the wedding, my best man decided that he hated his tuxedo, and refused to wear it. He kicked and screamed and cried and wouldn’t be persuaded with candy or cake or even peer pressure. (Damn you, Nancy Reagan!) Eventually, as the minutes ticked away towards the nuptial deadline, I had to call it. I pushed the button on the whole thing, and just went to the altar sans best man. I couldn’t really get upset with him, though. He’s only three years old.
Trey watched the ceremony in the safe and familiar clothing of his Batman shirt, blue jeans and his Mickey shoes, and he had a great time. Afterwards at the reception, he ran around with his cousins, found Narnia behind the curtains of the stage, and stole the show from Brittany and I during our first dance,
as he twirled around on his own, freestyle. It was a great wedding, filled with family and friends and various meats and cheeses of questionable origin. Somehow, a terrible mix of Barry Manilow and Anne Murray was playing on an unauthorized iPod and assaulting the unsuspecting ears of our guests during the first minutes of the reception, but things were eventually squared away when a collection of Vitamin String Quartet “tributes” to rock and metal bands took over the airwaves.
We pulled away from the church in a car decorated with shoe polish slogans and Brittany’s name misspelled on the back window, aluminum cans filled with pinto beans bouncing and scraping the pavement behind us as we drove off towards our hotel. I’d booked an enormous jacuzzi suite at the best hotel in town, and some friends met us at the downstairs bar for a few drinks after we checked in. This was a mistake.
The conversation was great, and I enjoyed catching up with old friends who I’ve seen far too infrequently in the past few years. However, the drinks were incredibly potent and, as I would soon learn, copious amounts of alcohol do not mix well with the superheated water of a hot tub sent from Hell.
After we’d had our fill of friends and alcohol, I was more than ready to get to the room to exercise my right of primae noctis. We said our farewells and left the bar, only to be confounded by the labyrinthine hallways of the hotel’s obviously occult floorplan. After reaching the back of the hotel and summoning Gozer The Gozerian finding some elevators, we hopped on board and proceeded to the top floor. Or rather, that’s what we would have done, if the particular set of elevators that we found had not been limited to three floors. We grumbled, gathered our bags, and walked off the elevator to retrace our steps back to the lobby. Jutting off to the side of the reception desk was an innocuous hallway that just happened to contain the main elevator bank. We got in, pushed the top button, and ascended to our suite.
After carrying Brittany over the threshold, we set our bags down, kissed and moved over to the bed. Then, we…
Eventually, we made our way into the hot tub. The room was open and airy, with oversized tiles and a large skylight directly over the jacuzzi. Candles surrounded us as we climbed into the bubbling caldron, champagne and chocolate covered strawberries sitting within reach. It was relaxing. It was romantic. It was horrible.
Apparently, there were warning signs both on the door and in the jacuzzi room itself cautioning guests to not consume large quantities of alcohol before submerging themselves in the freakishly hot water. However, being as we were already under the considerable influence of several Long Island Iced Teas by the time we got to the room, we were influenced to ignore the warnings about alcohol and hot water. And, I promise you, it was hot. It was beyond hot. The damned thing was lit by the fires of Hell itself, and it did a number on my body temperature. If I didn’t have a fever before going in, I had one when I came out. If I did have a fever beforehand, then taking a dip in the lobster boiler only spiked it beyond the limits of human endurance.
I spent the rest of the night under the covers of the enormous bed with a sudden onset of the chills, shivering every time I moved. Brittany didn’t fare much better, waking up in the morning with a raspy cough that heralded the return of her bronchitis. We were supposed to have breakfast from the buffet and enjoy a leisurely morning, but neither of us felt like it. We were trying to muster the strength to go pick up Trey and take him to A Day Out With Thomas, which he’d been looking forward to for weeks.
I drove home to pick up some cough syrup and ibuprofen, and came back to find Brittany packed up and ready to go. We went to pick up Trey, and got suckered into meeting some family for breakfast. We needed to eat anyway, so we agreed to meet everyone for some waffles and bacon. After that, we got on the road and began a three hour journey into the heart of darkness.
The town of Rusk, TX is known for only two things: a mental hospital, and a Texas State Railroad depot. The former is easy to find, presumably because of the high volume of crazy people living in Texas. The latter, however, is hidden in such a way as to discourage anyone from ever wanting to get anywhere near it at any time, whatsoever. There were exactly two small signs for the place. One could only be seen once you’d turned around at the edge of town, after having driven through the whole of Rusk and realizing that you must have missed it. The other is directly across from the depot’s entrance, informing you that you’ve arrived. There are no other signs.
There are, however, endless unnamed roads upon which one can – and will – become hopelessly lost. Entangled in the strange web of tiny country roads lined with scary houses and populated by the cast of Deliverance, we drove around and around and around for what seemed like hours. Trey was in his car seat, asking me where Thomas was.
“I’m looking for him,” I’d reply.
“You wooking?” he’d ask.
“Yeah, buddy. I’m looking.”
“You wooking hard?”
“Yep. Really hard. We’ll find him.”
“Ohhh kay.”
This went on every few minutes until we finally found the accursed depot. Fortunately, we were not too late to take in the festivities, and Trey had a wonderful time. The gigantic Sir Topham Hat proved to be too imposing a figure to stand with for a photo, but Trey waved to him and got within a good ten feet of the Churchillian character before planting his feet and shouting “No topum hat!” Thomas, on the other hand, was more successful.
Trey had his picture taken with the “riddy, riddy big Thomas!” engine after it steamed into the station. Later, he had Thomas temporarily tattooed onto his arm, listened to a Thomas story, and refused to take off his Mickey shoes to play in the train-themed bouncey house. We left with our arms filled with Thomas booty, from a new blanket and toy, to a refrigerator magnet and a Day Out With Thomas pennant. He made off with a good haul.
It was a nice end to a good day, or at least it would have been had Brittany’s car not exploded on the drive home. Unaccustomed to the hilly nature of the area, her poor Alero decided to fight back towards the end of the return trip, finally dying completely within a mile of our house. I pushed it into a service station, then managed to coax it back to our driveway through a complex series of pedal movements and gear changes. A friend of mine who builds and races cars came over the next day to attach his computer to the backfiring monstrosity, which deduced that it was misfiring. Well yeah, thanks computer. Very helpful. (Fortunately, my friend is smarter than the computer, and repairs are underway.)
During all of this, my time in the Hades Hot Tub left me with a horrible cold and Brittany with a return visit from a stubborn case of bronchitis. We’ve spent the days since Sunday in our pajamas, her on the couch and me in my chair. Trey ran around the house, playing imaginary games with himself and his toys, always in various states of dress. Sometimes in PJs, sometimes in a pull-up, sometimes in mismatched clothes, such as a pull-up, Mickey shoes, and his train conductor hat. He and I spent most of Tuesday curled up in my chair, watching old movies. I fell asleep during Sesame Street Presents: Follow that Bird, and I can’t believe I ever thought that The Beastmaster was good. And, while I was previously miffed about Robert Rodriguez’s impending remake of Red Sonja, I am no longer concerned. Merciful Zeus, but did we tolerate some crappy cinema back in the ’80s…
Things are looking better today. I’m on the mend, and Brittany has a fresh batch of medicine with which to fight the invading bronchial hordes. So far, our marriage has consisted of illness, navigational ineptitude, and a non-combusting internal combustion engine. It’s a good thing we’re not actually taking our real honeymoon until next week, otherwise I might think we’re jinxed!
Then again, it’s been a good few days, despite all of the misfortune. We’ve definitely been hit with a dose of reality to help balance out all of the puppy-dogged, big-eyed feelings of lovey dovey, husband and wifeyness. We’ve moved straight into the mundane grit of a life spent together in marriage, to the place where things like suspicious bodily discharges don’t affect us. Brittany even got me to use a bizarre tool of medieval torture called a Neti Pot which, while completely disgusting and foul, is actually quite effective at clearing one’s sinuses through the most hideous way imaginable.
We’ve got the “in sickness” part of the vows down, and now we’re looking forward to the “in health” bits. After all, for all the fun we had in the hotel room before making the mistake of entering the infernal fury of Satan’s Hot Tub, we never actually made it around to consummating our union. Not technically, anyway. Not in the strictest sense of the term. Not really. We need to get around to tying up that particular loose end as soon as possible, lest someone like the Pope come along and try to dissolve the marriage.
Want some books? 'Course ya do!
NOTE: I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.
I'll take care of it.
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If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.
You're welcome.
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What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.
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for the record, i've been waiting for this wedding to happen almost as long as you just because of your blog haha trey is so cute, and in a strange way, i feel like a part of your extended family for talking about them and your life so much. i appreciate it. you're an amazing writer! thanks for creating such an impressive and entertaining blog 🙂