Trophy Husband

This past weekend I was fulfilling spousal duties and appeared as arm candy for my partner's 10-year high school reunion.  Granted, I'm something akin to a 10-year old strawberry bon-bon you find in the back of your junk drawer and are unable to satisfactorily separate from the wrapper kind of arm candy, but there I was anyway just as my partner insisted.  As the "trophy husband" I spent much of my time telling people, "My eyes are up here," and dropping hints about my partner's net worth.

My first clue that this was going to be an enjoyable weekend was when my partner mentioned her wardrobe change bag which she quickly glossed over after noticing my face and decided to refer to as a back-up bag "because there are some things in there that are back-ups...like a bra."  I guess she wasn't wearing a bra or maybe she was and anticipated some accident that would require a bra change, I'm not really sure.  It was all very confusing.  The concern and confusion grew as we got closer to our destination.

My partner is usually a very good driver.  A tad lead-footed at times, but a good driver nonetheless.  I noticed that her decision making ability was diminishing exponentially the nearer we got to Farmington.  "I don't see a speed limit sign," was apparently code for I'm going to begin driving like a fucking maniac.  There were some harrowing turns onto highway interchanges.  Of course, she could have simply been distracted by some awesome things we saw on the road.

Smitty's Sporting Goods sells guns and ammo as well as fishing and archery equipment.  Apparently those are the only sports down there.  Either way, there's nothing like a sporting goods store the size of a Waffle House.

I couldn't help but think of what a team President George W. Bush and Jesus made in the White House for eight years.  Nothing like having "the Decider" and the "Problem Solver" on your side to make sure things go smoothly.  What's that you say? President Bush's eight years were a complete clusterfuck?  Oh. Nevermind then.

My disdain for consumer Christianity was greatly mitigated by the fact that this church sells fireworks.  I want to go to fireworks church.  Who wouldn't want to go to fireworks church?  Clearly these people get it.  I am in.

This place wins the internet for best name ever in the history of naming things. This is in fact an ice cream joint (frozen custard to be exact) and is so eloquently named that we had to stop and sample the wares.  Sadly their frozen custard was terrible which I guess is why they had to come up with such a kick-ass name. Crafty owners they are.

The rest of the weekend was your general homecoming fair.  A parade, a football game, and of course the all important actual reunion booze and schmooze.  It was exhausting.  My plan from the get-go was heavy on the booze and light on the schmooze so I took up residence at a table with my beer and proceeded to yell at various football games on TV for the rest of the night.  The other part of the plan was to incessantly text my buddy with snarky remarks and wallowing self-pity until the night ended.  Did I mention that my partner graduated from a podunk town and the reunion was in the middle of nowhere?  Yeah, no reception and to spice it up a bit we almost hit a few deer on the way out there.  I was thrilled.

On the bright side, we did fill up the gas tank at the rock bottom price of $2.93 a gallon.