The One with All the Parenthesis

So, Vic (I just can't call him Spuds. I have a problem with admitting that I have a friend with a potato name.) decided to join the ranks of women bloggers at BlogHER in New York. He really wanted to go to BlogHIM, but until someone organizes that (HA HA HA! See what I did there? I made a joke! Because everyone knows a bunch of men aren't going to organize a conference), he decided to see what all the fuss was about at BlogHer. (I personally think he just wanted to check out all the hot mom bloggers.) Hmmm, could I use any more parenthesis in this post? (That was rhetorical.) Hey look, yes, I can use more parenthesis!

So, anyway, Vic decided to go to BlogHer, but since he made this decision at the last minute, airfare under $5000 to New York was hard to come by. So, with the help of yours truly, we figured it might be cheaper to fly through Chicago and continue to New York on the same flight I was taking. See, that way, I didn't have to worry about sitting next to a coughing, snotting, smelly weirdo, and he didn't have to worry about someone having heart palpitations because his shoulders encroached into their seating area. (Really, his shoulders are about as wide as he is tall. Or, for another example, about as wide as my butt is.)

So, I picked him up from the airport yesterday. My kids were thrilled with the whole driving around the airport 50,000 times and finally parking since Vic couldn't seem to locate his luggage that was never actually lost. Then, instead of taking him downtown and showing him the awesome sights of the city, I dragged him to Home Depot and Play it Again Sports and Target. (What? I wanted him to feel at home with all the running around and kids screaming in the background.)

He cut his finger while fixing my window and confused poor Brooklyn. She kept offering him a BandAid and looking very puzzled at the wet toilet paper he'd stuck to his finger. I looked at her "what's wrong with this guy?" expression as the proffered BandAid, dangled from her little fist, then I consoled her with, "Sweetie, they don't have BandAids in Tennessee. They just use toilet paper." (Vic has a slightly different account of the incident HERE.)

Anyway, it was a nice short flight today. I was freezing. He offered me his sport coat. He asked the flight attendant for tomato juice (EW! That's just wrong unless it's mixed with vodka.) And he hardly laughed at all when I couldn't figure out why I was unable to return my tray table to it's original position. I kept slamming it up. Slam! Slam! SLAM!!! The poor person in front of me got whiplash thanks to all my slamming. Then he gave me a "Really? Are you serious" look, as he reached over and the pulled the water bottle out of the seat pocket, enabling me to lock the tray in place. And then he carried my bag with my computer. I'm not sure, but I think he may have rolled his eyes when I asked if he was sure it wasn't too heavy. (Hey, it was breaking my shoulder!)

So now, here we sit in a relatively quiet corner of the hotel bar, tandem-blogging while waiting for our rooms to be ready.