In Which I Never Learn
...because, after I wrote that entry, about the pooping and the car and the going to the vet? Uh. Well. I made Dukay take the dogs to the vet, and Dukay took the other dogs into the vet first, and left Bo in Dukay's (new) car, and...uh. Bo pooped in Dukay's driver seat.
Right there. Driver's Seat. It was Dump of Displeasure II: The ReDump.
Wait, maybe it should be Poo Two. Or...actually, maybe I should stop thinking about this.
Anyway. Now, this happened, um, because possibly...possibly I had forgotten to mention the poo predicament to Dukay. Okay, yes. I forgot that. But still, TOO BAD, SO SAD, because if he'd only read this SITE every once in a while, he would learn important things about which dog to take into the vet FIRST, and which dog you NEVER, EVER LEAVE UNATTENDED IN THE CAR while you take someone else inside, BECAUSE BAD IDEA, DUDE. Hope you brought Clorox.
See, all y'all know. If I asked any of you, then you would say, "I plan on taking Bo inside first, because I do not want a close, intimate relationship with the poo of another living creature, particularly not before lunch."
For you are all brilliant.
Anyway, after the major explosion that was Dukay after the dog pooped on his seat, things calmed down considerably, and we drove to Charleston.
And we drove. And then we did some driving. And then we drove some more. And then we were still not there, so we did the natural thing, and that is DRIVE SOME MORE, and then we did the next natural thing, and that is we exited the highway too soon and got totally turned around and lost, like the tourists that we are.
But somehow, we eventually found our hotel, and it was lovely, and we managed to find a wonderful restaurant for dinner, and frankly, we were feeling pretty fucking proud of our grown-up, traveling selves. We are so awesome, we were thinking. But we were wrong.
Somehow, as we entered South Carolina, Dukay caught Curse. We're not sure when it happened. But for some reason, every time Dukay ordered food, for the entire weekend, something would be wrong with his order. Every time. It didn't matter if we were at an expensive restaurant or at a hole in the wall; somehow, something was WRONG.
And, Dukay does not deal real well with "wrong." He is a send-backer, which clashes with my own passive-aggressive-"no, it's fine"-restaurant martyrdom. Frankly, his way is probably better, but for some reason, I am physically incapable of sending back a meal. If I found a human thumb in my risotto, I would probably just pick around it and sigh dejectedly; this is the depths of my commitment to not be a pain in the ass to any server at any time.
Also, I am a complete and total chicken, and I am convinced that if I'm a bitchy little diva, someone is going to spit in my food. And, while Dukay does not deal well with "wrong", I do not deal well with spit. I HATE SPIT. Spit freaks me the heck out.
But anyway. At the first restaurant, Dukay's salad was never delivered to our table, and his requested medium-cooked steak showed up frighteningly, terrifyingly rare. Very rare. Rare as in, mooooooo.
So, at first I'm all kidding about it. "Baby," I tell him. "Charleston is flirting with me! Charleston doesn't like you. Charleston wants you out of the way."
The next day, at lunch, Dukay ordered barbecue shrimp. They arrived after I had already finished my meal, and they were still frozen.
This gave me a new theory. "Baby," I suggested brightly. "Charleston thinks you're fat."
Later, Dukay tried for a basket of hushpuppies. They never showed up. My theory was beginning to grow darker. "Baby," I whispered across the table. "Charleston wants you dead."
When we arrived at our final dinner reservation on Saturday night, Dukay explained all of this, in painstaking detail, to our server, who was both horrified and highly entertained. He, in turn, told the chef, who very kindly sent us out an assortment of special things and came by our table to make sure Dukay hadn't, I don't know, CHOKED on something and DIED, because that was about how his luck was going.
But, besides eating everything and drinking everything in our vicinity, we also went on a ghost tour, which was both incredibly touristy and tremendously awesome. The most awesome part was maybe where our tour guide almost got into a smackdown with a competing tour guide from another company, and I got all het up with this newly-forged loyalty to our tour guide, whom I had known for a very special twenty minutes, and proceeded to go all oh NO YOU DIDN'T and called the other tourguide a dried-up old hag.
And then we had to leave the city before she tracked me down and spit in my food. You understand.
There's more, and I should tell you about how Dukay met up with his friend Popsicle, and the two of them ordered seventy pounds of barbecue on Sunday afternoon, and THAT didn't end well. Or how I made Dukay shop pretty much all day on Saturday, but he didn't complain very much because he is vying for sainthood all of a sudden. Or how I made poor footwear choices, because Charleston is a walking town, turns out, and when you are in a walking town, cute pointy high shoes are A FUCKING BAD IDEA, IDIOT, and now my legs are sad at me, and I have actually managed to give myself shin splints, because I am really, really stupid.
All of that happened. But what's important is that we went to Charleston, it was the best weekend I've had in years, and Dukay and I had a lovely, romantic time, even though Charleston possibly wants him to die.
And now, all that's left? Is to pick the dogs up from the vet. Y'all pray for me. And also for the upholstery.