Thriller Track Number Nine

So yesterday I told you about me, now let me tell you a little about my wife. She's a baaaad chick. Behind the veneer of a friendly disposition is a woman who has endured some of the worst hardships in life, carried on her shoulders the burdens of a series of other people's mistakes and dreams deferred and like some type of damn Brita stress filter she transforms all of the shit that life has thrown at her into an almost constant goddamn smile on her face. If spirit is strength then she can pick up the weight of the world in one hand and write down the names of the asses she's kicking with the other. She's so bad that if I wasn't me, I'd be her.

Every year she wants to get me a Valentine's Day gift and every year I say no because the idea of a man getting a gift is just odd to me. Nonetheless we reached a compromise this year. She wouldn't get me a Valentine's Day gift, she'd get me a Black History Month gift or as I like to call it "We Have Overcome (WHO) Month." So on Saturday we went out under the auspice of going to get her a cupcake in Georgetown.

She drives down the street like she's trying to test out the flux capacitor. It scares the hell out of me and she, as if annoyed by my constant breath holding and eyes closing, pulls over and tells me to get out. I happily oblige and proceed to start thanking baby Jesus that I'm alive. She hands me an envelope through the window, gives me this Batman-ish "I'll find you" and then drives away like she's going to catch the Joker. The envelope says "Happy W.H.O Month." I open it and find a card inside that has an address and a time on it. My wife is now playing Mission Impossible with me.

I go to the address and find that she's sent me to a spa. I was kinda pissed because I thought she was leading me to Bobby's Burger Palace and the idea of a straight man going into a spa just seems silly. I'm not paying a woman for a massage or any other service (that's what my charm is for). Anyway, I went in because she went to so much trouble. Fast forward an hour and I now know what it felt like to have slaves back in the Egyptian days. From the time they put me in that fancy robe, had one of their servants bring me some cucumber water and wine and then had another slave girl take me to the back and give me what can only be described as just "one step away from adultery" I was hooked. If I have to sell dummy rocks on the corner made out of old baby formula to support my new massage habit then I'll do that.

My wife picked me up drove me a few blocks and then pulled over again. She opened my door, handed me my bookbag and my daughter's diaper bag and gave me another envelope. After that massage she could've asked me to stand on the corner and turn tricks and I would've said yes. So I followed the address in the envelope and it led me to a hotel. I thought she had the wrong address. It was one of those fancy historic hotels in DC. The bell hop asked me if I was lost. I told him my wife sent me on a scavenger hunt. I went inside and she'd reserved an executive room for me. The concierge gave me a glass of champagne and two slaves asked to take my bags.

I went upstairs and opened up my bags. Now this is where you know you have a good woman. A normal woman, a nymph, would've just packed a change of clothes, BUT a goddess...(single tear rolling down my face) she packs your Xbox 360, your games, a box of Cheez-Its, reese cups, skittles, whoppers, water, your laptop and ten bucks for wifi. (Hallelujah!) Oh, and for those who haven't caught on...she wasn't coming. That's a person without kids' fantasy...to have the wife meet you in a nice hotel. An overworked, stay at home dad who raises the seed of Chucky just wants a night to himself.

The only thing I needed now was dinner and that's when I saw two more envelopes. The "open at 6pm" one led me to my reservation at Morton's Steakhouse where I was instructed to buy "a real steak" instead of those cheap paper thin ones that I get from the grocery store all the time. I tore that damn porterhouse up and had some cheesecake for dessert. I went back to the room, actually took a bath in my huge marble tiled bathroom. I even put on a damn robe. Before I passed out for the night on my king size bed that was toddler free, I read my last card which told me I had a free breakfast in their fancy restaurant downstairs.

The next morning I had breakfast in a place where two waiters/servants/slaves stand by your table and refill your coffee every time it gets to half way. They had smoked salmon on the breakfast buffet bar. I walked outta there with the feeling you get when you find money on the ground. Finally she and the child came and picked me up, I clicked my heels three times and now I'm back home. I feel like a king, and this is just one weekend with this woman. Imagine what nine years does to you.