Several of the husbands I share with my sister-wives are chefs. Notable among them are Curtis Stone, Eric Ripert, and John Besh. Besh is the Louisiana-based ex-Marine Cajun chef who turns my knees to grits (spicy cheese grits, that is). And apparently my feelings of adoration are mutual — he’s coming here to visit me and cook for me! See that picture of him on the left in the middle? He has that same look on his face when he pours olive oil over my naked body!! Then we sop it all up with some arugula and croutons. Then we play a game called “Hide the Andouille.” I need professional help. Or John Besh needs a professional security guard, or both.
I had my usual luck on the way home yesterday — two hours sitting on the runway in Richmond with no explanation from the flight crew while more and more and more people boarded. I was sitting next to a nice, but large (like 6′ 4″ and stocky) guy with his 2-year-old screaming daughter on his lap. She had lost one shoe at some point before they boarded the plane, which was good in the long run because she kept kicking me. He tried to stop her, but there wasn’t enough space to maneuver in. He had put the armrest up and encroached a LOT into my space. His daughter also launched herself at my computer keyboard several times. When we were finally informed about the delay, none of it made a fucking bit of sense. Something about how the longest runway at the airport was closed so we had to take off on a shorter runway, which meant that we had to lighten the plane by taking fuel off, which meant that we’d have to make an unscheduled fuel stop in Nashville. Why they let 20-some more people (and their luggage) on AFTER they should have closed the doors when we were already too heavy defied logic. The only good part was that they gave us free drinks during our very brief trip to Nashville, but then they didn’t do a beverage service from Nashville to Dallas. I had already taken a xanax due to being kicked by a toddler, but I needed the vodka to take the edge off, because the xanax hadn’t quite done the trick. And of course, due to the 3+ hour delay, I missed my connection in Dallas. They rebooked me on a flight that left at 9 fucking 55. I was so mad that I was shaking. I am soooo lucky that I have a friend like E who was able to pick Molly and Buster up from the kennel so they didn’t have to spend another night there. The customer service people at American Airlines don’t seem to understand the “service” part of their job. When they told me what flight I’d been rebooked on I yelled, “WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING? SERIOUSLY?” at the gate agent, then immediately apologized and told her I knew it wasn’t her fault, then yelled some more about the injustice and stupidity of the whole situation, then apologized some more. This wasn’t satisfying, so I found one of the kiosks with direct lines to the rebooking people at American. These phones are connected to a call center in India, and while my Indian was very articulate and nice, he sounded just like D so I yelled at him for a while too. Then I apologized. I almost told him that I was yelling at him because he sounded like this man-whore who had recently hurt my heart, but I figured since he already thought I was crazy there was really no need to over-share.
I got onto a 7:30 flight on standby. After I got my boarding pass at the counter, I turned around and tripped over someone else’s luggage because he’d set it right behind my feet. Luckily he caught me around the waist when I was about halfway to the ground and was very apologetic about trying to break my arm. It was really just a typical travel day for me, and if that’s the worst thing that happens to me in the next month, then it will be a damn good month. No tragedy, but just so FRUSTRATING. I was sooooo happy to come home to a clean house thanks to Peaches and Awesome McCool and to Buster and Molly thanks to E!!!
Today I realized that wearing underpants that are slightly too large when you’re running has comical implications. My drawers kept falling down inside my shorts. I would wiggle them back up and they would immediately droop again and end up in a damp, loose wad around my hips. Eventually I just let them go. It was either that or stop and take them off. Next month John Besh and I will laugh and laugh about that time my underpants fell off. He just gets me.
My wife wants to know why you don’t just wear spandex or shorts with the britches built-in. She is aghast that you wear undies while working out.
I have a few pairs of shorts with the britches built in, but a couple of pair that are more old school. I have some of the spandex ones too, but on super-hot days they’re the least comfortable option. From now on, it’s commando while running!!
Don’t you ever stop writing! So entertaining, and it’s your everyday. Can’t wait until this is a book. You, sweet K, are on your way to some gold. Sister, John Besh…YEEES! You be good to him, and ask him to sign a pic for me! LOVE HIM!