A Pox On Both Your Hands

I went out drinking with an old work buddy (well, he's young and I'm old, as he reminded me) on Friday night, and I had a good time. But I made sure I came home early, because I had important, civic-minded things to do. Baby and I were planning to participate in the AIDS Walk bright and early on Saturday morning, and I felt it very important that I only get somewhat drunk so as not to be too hungover. We also had a long trip out to the distant suburbs on Saturday afternoon for my brother's wife's (sister-in-law still seems weird) baby shower. I knew I'd be seeing a lot of family, so I didn't want to look like the disheveled wreck they usually see when I happen to visit with them. So, see? I was trying to be good.

We got up early, only a little bit hungover, and met the rest of our 'team' (made up of co-workers) for the walk. We were short on time with our long drive ahead of us, but we stuck it out and walked the whole thing, hangover and all, because we wanted to show solidarity and all that good stuff. Plus we felt like we needed to earn our tshirts, which are scratchy and way too big. Make a mental note about the tshirts, they may or may not be important later.

On our way home we stopped by the new Au Bon Pain on the corner. We're thrilled that it's there, because most of downtown DC becomes a ghost town on the weekends. It's a blessing to be able to get my sausage croissant on since Sparky's closed to make way for the wine bar (omfg rite?!) and Breakwell's nearly burned down. So we ate there for the first time, and it was marvelous. (make another mental note, this time about the food)

After lunch we took showers, and started packing up the Zipcar. We went to the beach a couple of weeks ago, and we borrowed things like beach chairs and towels from my mother that we planned to give back to her at the baby shower. The chairs were all sandy from the beach, and they were crappy to begin with, so I left them on our back patio in the alley. Miraculously, no one had stolen them, or used them for illicit sex acts. As I was carrying them into the house to set them by the front door, a prehistorically large bug flew out of one, whizzed by our heads, and out the open back door. It was so big my first instinct was to take cover, so I didn't really see what happened. Baby was visibly shaken, but she assured me that whatever it was (dragonfly from the beach? pigeon? pterosaur?), it was certainly gone. We were relieved. (Mental note: soap; shampoo; used items; alley in large, downtown American city used almost exclusively to exchange sex for money; potentially disease-ridden predator)

We were checking all the stuff we had to return, to make sure we remembered everything, and I noticed my right hand was itching, just below my thumb. And I mean really itching. So I put some Cortisone on it, because of course I'm the guy who has that kind of thing in his medicine cabinet. (Mental note: first onset of symptoms)

The drive sucked. We love Zipcars, but this one had a problem with the air conditioning. Air was coming out of the vents, but it wasn't cooled at all. And since it's 90 degrees in the fall in DC these days, that was problematic. The traffic was miserable as well. It was 1pm on a Saturday, and it took an hour to drive 30 miles on the highway, with stop and go traffic almost the whole time. Where the fuck are all of you people going? And do you really need a giant SUV to get there? When we finally arrived at our destination, beautiful Prince William County, Virginia (motto: latinos are the new poor/gay/black people) I was literally stunned. I can remember when Fairfax was the distant suburbs to DC, and anything beyond that was straight up country. And that wasn't that long ago. But by the time we finally pulled into the cul-de-sac (directions: it's the 209,328,916th McMansion on the left-hand side, can't miss it), I felt like the fucking Lorax. As an aside, I hate all of you people. You laugh at me when I explain how great living in the city is, and you tell me how you feel so much safer living in the suburbs where your kids can go outside and play. I buy that, because I was raised in the suburbs and practically lived outdoors. But each time I drive to one of these neighborhoods, there is never a kid in sight. They've got mile-wide streets, impossibly green lawns and skateparks, (SKATEPARKS!) in the suburbs these days, and the kids are either wiped out from their exhaustive schedule of playdates, or glued to their PS3's in the den. (Mental notes: poor air quality (suspicious airborne car bacteria?); road rage; SUVs; racism; deforestation; Dr. Seuss; hypocrisy; conservation; fat children; suburbs)

The baby shower was fine. It was good to see my family, and easy to ignore the people we didn't know. We'd bought cheesy but cute tshirts for my nieces at the beach, and they even seemed happy when we gave them to them. I drank a beer and thought about getting something to eat. As I'm reaching for a "quesadilla," someone mentions how delicious the "shrimp quesadillas" are. Alarm bells. Shellfish are poisonous, and they make me die. What kind of sadistic bastard puts shellfish in quesadillas? Remind me to give peanut-and-milk lollipops to the pasty, allergic to everything children my unborn nephew will undoubtedly have to have playdates with. In a rage, I go outside and call my brother. He was boycotting the baby shower because "they're like, I don't know, fucking gay and stuff," so I was gonna stop by his house and check it out. He just bought a townhouse out there, and you wouldn't believe the place. It's beautiful inside, of course. Gigantic, really, when you consider what small people he and his wife are. He showed me his enormous new TV, and we played some videogames. He told me about his neighborhood, and it sounds like typical Prince William County: he bought his place for 20% less than the places across the street were selling for a year ago; several of the houses on the street are in various stages of foreclosure; the builder has closed up shop, either bankrupt or close to it, and much of the neighborhood is unfinished, including the roads; the commute is a bastard, but hey he's got hardwood floors and marble countertops, right?; and the neighbors are okay, well, except for maybe that guy with the Confederate flag in the back window of his pickup truck. Sounds grand. (Mental notes: presence of unidentified strangers; close proximity to small children; genuine pleasure; beer; POISON!; misplaced rage; ridiculous logic; mini-McMansions; diminutive siblings; television envy; videogames as a viable hobby for thirtysomethings; falling property values; did you really think you could afford a half million dollar house on your Applebees salary?; unsound business practices; commuting; superfluous luxury; neighbors; rednecks)

My dad calls eight times, begging us to come back to the shower. He's the only man there (besides my sister's husband, whose own parents and children don't even consider a man), and he's getting antsy. I convince my brother to come with me. It's about 4 o'clock by now, and he's on his way to his wife's baby shower, full of her friends and our families. He has not showered, nor shaved, and he's wearing sweatpants. (Mental notes: nagging dad; pathetic brother-in-law; clueless brother) (Note to self: more posts about brother, untapped comic gold)

In the car on the way home, my hands are starting to itch. And by itch, I mean ITCH. I'm sweaty because the air conditioning doesn't work, and I'm starting to feel funny. We get out of the car, and I take a good look at my hands. They're swollen, and they've covered in dozens if not hundreds of tiny, hard, red bumps. Fucking everywhere. Not good. Thank God I don't tend to overreact about these things, especially the ones involving my health and the uncertain status but obviously bleak outlook of it. And phew, wouldn't it be terrible if I was one of those people who has those things, what are they called again? Oh yeah, FUCKING PANIC FUCKING ATTACKS FUCKING I'VE FUCKING GOT FUCKING TO FUCKING GET FUCKING OUT FUCKING OF FUCKING HERE. (Mental note: itching; POX! POX! POX!; Caps Lock is cruise control for cool)

I run inside and grab Baby. I say maybe two words to my family, and bolt for the door. She knows the crazed "How the fuck have you NOT NOTICED that the goddamn SKY IS FALLING!?" look in my eye, and she does not ask questions. She knows that to show concern is to validate, no verify, my worst fears. She pretends that all of this is very normal, and she tells me about the baby shower. She knows I'm not listening, knows that all I need right now is for everyone to not notice that I'm losing it. She pretends not to notice. She's the most amazing woman I have ever known. She should win an Oscar and the Nobel Peace Prize. She goes on and on, but finally she breaks character. "Does this mean we're going to miss Chick-Fil-A?"

Baby is a connoisseur of fast food, and she understands that Chick-Fil-A is a delicacy. They do not have any franchises in DC, so she only gets to eat it once or twice a year. She will put up with this maniac of a future-husband, his alcoholic white trash family and a gorgeous 95% humidity, 90 degree October day in the suburbs, just so long as she can get her chicken sandwich with extra mayonnaise and pickles, please. How can I say no to that? We go through the drive through, and she feeds me waffle fries all the way home while I drive. My hands are a wreck, but who cares? Have you fucking seen this woman sitting next to me?

I still don't know what brought on the mysterious handpox though. I took a shower and a handful of Benadryl when I got home, and it didn't do a thing. They finally started to subside a few days later, but even today the skin is still a bit rough and bumpy. Now that I think about it, I may have encountered a few things during the day that could trigger some kind of allergy. Probably shouldn't have much trouble singling out the actual cause.