Tag Archives: Business Trips

Please send me a working trash can and other fears about going on a business trip


There is a public-information campaign for the U.S. Military that aims to help servicemembers returning from long deployments adjust to living with their loved ones again. The gist of it is, shit may have changed while you were gone, stop being an asshat and deal with it.

In simpler terms, “expect change.”

I’ve, in a previous life, deployed twice in service to my country (as has my wife) and I fully realize that this sort of information is both needed and useful.

Things do change when you’re away for a year or more, and that’s OK.

But — and this “but” is an all-capital-letters BUT — how the fuck does my wife expect me to predict the level of fuckallery that she inflicts upon our house every time I’ve gone on a trip that lasts more than two hours.

I travel a moderate amount for work. I used to travel all the time. There have been six-month periods that I was away on business trips more than I was home. Thankfully that’s slowed down a lot and now I’m only gone a few weeks every two or three months.

Still though, the decisions made while I’m gone for 10 days are baffling, shocking and bizarre to me. I don’t know about your marriage (or domestic union, or shack up, or polygamist cult), but generally in my household decisions that affect both participants are a committee kind of decision. An idea is put forth. If there is opposition, a counter argument is made and, generally, I do whatever the fuck she wants me to do.

I’m not talking about decisions to buy a new tablecloth or replace the towels with a new pattern, (actually our towel collection should really, really be donated to a home for the blind and mentally disturbed. It’s a mishmash of vomit, earth tones and some sort of cloth weaved by a not-very interested person in a refugee camp circa 1820) those kinds of decisions I could give a fuck about because I have a penis.

Kellogg's frosted flakes lipbalm

They’re magically delicious. Now with lip balm!(Photo credit: Valeri-DBF) 

Really, during this most recent trip, my wife replaced a lot of our dinner plates. My interest registered on the “husband gives a fuck” scale at a two. Something scientists in a famous 1978 study defined as, “Is she happy with the decision? If yes, shut the hell up.” She showed me the new plates and I asked myself the following: Will the plate hold food? Yes. Is she happy with the plate? Yes. Therefore the plate is fucking great. If it were not for her I would be eating cold Frosted Flakes out of the box, happy I had remembered to buy Frosted Flakes in the first place.

So, by change, I don’t mean the simple changes that serve to turn the feces-strewn, half-naked-poster-girl-riddled cardboard box the single me would call home, into the comfortable, charming place I now live in because of my wife’s awesomeness.

Oh no, I mean the completely irrational, logic-defying, who-in-their-right-mind-would-consider-this-an-improvement kind of change.

Changes that make no fucking sense whatsoever kind of changes.

Which are my favorite kind of changes.

You probably want examples. I would too, honestly. I mean, a guy can’t just make wild claims about his wife making these kinds of changes and not back it up with a few examples can he?

Lucky for you I have examples*.

We no longer have a trash can.

I don’t mean the little ones you and I all have in the bathroom that collects tissue and cotton swabs. Nor do I mean the ones we all keep in our bedroom collects “Oh that’s fucking GROSS, NO!” I mean missing into the abyss was the central trashcan of the house. Yours is likely in the kitchen as is ours … as WAS ours.

While I was gone the decision was made that all refuge will be place in little

plastic bags awaiting recycling

Clearly these are better than the $80 trash can with the spring loaded lid you had to have last spring. Clearly.(Photo credit: EvelynGiggles)

convenience store bags (of which we have eight million stored) and then when full (and they are always full) they will be removed from the house.

Now look, in addition to being a major contributor to the house’s trash-making capability (beer cans), I am also the authority on taking out the trash because she decreed it so eons ago. That part is fine, it’s not a household chore I mind and really it’s pretty easy. I’ve even been taught to check the liner after the bag is removed and, if dirty, to spray it with cleaning solution and wipe with a paper towel.

I mean I have this shit down.

So how was this decision made? Saying nothing about recycling. How did we go from having a respectable clean receptacle for our trashcan to using 7-Eleven type bags? That’s like deciding not to use the dishwasher when you have a working dishwasher.

Yeah. We’re no longer using the dishwasher.

I’m pretty sure my wife was abused by a dishwasher as a child. I suspect it’s a repressed memory. Nothing else describes her fear and loathing of the dishwasher doing its job. Its been an ongoing battle.

“Honey, just use the dishwasher,” I’d say.

“I like doing them by hand, it’s relaxing,” would be the reply.

Then two weeks later when it becomes more aggravating than relaxing (which in my stunning brilliance I predicted) I get, “Can you help me wash the dishes?”

Yes, honey, yes I can, by loading the dishwasher.

* I could write a book with examples and may still…

Rules for business trips … never give sasha your phone number, never.


Haven’t updated in a while because, well fuck you it’s summer and who wants to type a bunch of words when it’s sunny and hot outside.   Not me that’s who.   Anyway just returned from a few TDY (business) trips and thought, you know what this blog needs?  Public Service Announcements that’s what!

Thus …

Rules for business trips:

When drunk in your hotel room a close up photo of your balls texted to 45 of your closest friends will not be all that funny the next morning.

Okay, yes it will be, but only if it’s REALLY close … with a few ball hairs.   That makes the joke funny.    You need a few ball hairs in the photo.

Free for use internet images for herpies come up with some pretty funny results.

Free for use internet images for herpies come up with some pretty funny results.

The fact that “Sasha” has offered you a dance in the “private room” does not mean you and her somehow ‘connected’ and anyway herpes doesn’t care.  More on Sasha in a moment though.

Internet porn is free.  Hotel TV porn is not.  Do the math.

Hotel porn really, really sucks too.

Married males only: Internet porn is best enjoyed in rationed doses.  If you find yourself looking at a naked midget clown mowing the lawn, literally mowing a lawn, it’s time for bed.

After a certain number of business trips you will likely shun all human contact after working hours.  No longer will you desire to see the local post card production museum in (insert town here) or go out with your fellow travelers but will wish to remain secluded in your room most, if not all, nights.   Refrain from building a fort from the hotel room’s pillows and sheets near the door.

If that’s impossible, build in an escape route, while giggling if possible.

The minibar in your own room should be treated with respect, only touched when needed.  The minibar in anyone else’s room should be used and abused like a roman slave.  #protip free beer is always available in someone else’s minibar.

Yes, yes you can have a beer in an airport no matter what time it is.   Literally most international airports have bars that are open always.   Use this opportunity to find out what you think is funny when you drink at 6 a.m. with no food.   Facebook the results for extra credit fun.

Any offer by anyone traveling with you to go ‘out’ that night that is not a ‘tried and tested’ companion can and likely will result in a hangover that is level eight.   Proceed with caution.

Currency conversion when drunk is best done by adding up the number of drinks consumed, multiplied by the hours spent in the establishment, divided by … just hand over the credit card.  If you’re in an ‘unusual country’ said credit card will be declined and you will have to call the fraud alert hot line in the morning to, technical terms follows, “unfuck it.”

There is a 50-50 chance the boss is as hung over as you are.   Should you find yourself not at all hung-over, spike the football.  If not hung-over

This was not the best free for use image I could find for hungover but it was the one that made me laugh the most.

This was not the best free for use image I could find for hungover but it was the one that made me laugh the most.

and wondering if the boss is hung-over, invite him out.   If he gags, spike.   Works. Every. Time.

No matter how prepared you were you forgot the most important up-to-date document.   Deal with that.

The most important up-to-date document is really useless.   It won’t survive day one of the real reason you’re traveling anyway.

Anyone that has a “good idea” or plans a “fun” ice breaker should be savagely stripped of all their clothing and beaten by the group with large sticks … or congratulated for being the most awesome person ever.  Whichever.

Stripping a person of all their clothes and beating them with sticks should never be suggested as an icebreaker but would but a very memorable icebreaker.

Alone time in a hotel room is an excellent opportunity to go over every inch of your skin for weird shit. Odd bumps, hairs, anomalies, third nipples whatever.   You’re likely naked anyway.  Fuck the hotel furniture.

The hotel furniture is likely FULL of butt germs.

The temp of the hotel room can always be set to plus or minus five degrees of what you decide is awesome.

Printing any document while traveling will be a level 8-million clusterfuck, resign yourself.

The taxi driver will not speak you language … I don’t care what language you speak, he won’t speak it.  This somehow equates to a better tip.

Any decision made after 11 p.m. will have interesting consequences.

No matter how much fun you’re having at the club don’t call home to tell your spouse about it.

Don’t.

Trust me.

Never let Sasha talk on the phone to your significant other, the phone bill is too high.

Don't give Sasha your phone number.   If your SO gives her the number ... flee south.

Don’t give Sasha your phone number. If your SO gives her the number … flee south.

If Sasha and your SO talk for more than 5 minutes, find religion and pray, pray for all you’re worth, that the plane going home crashes.   This won’t happen of course so spend big at the duty free/gift shop … you will buy something they don’t want or even like but … okay hope the plane goes down.

While we are on Sasha, her ass is neither better than anyone else’s and you would not come to the “yard” for it in the morning.  It’s a cute ass but it doesn’t need to be spoken of tomorrow.

Never say milkshake when referring to a person’s butt.  Milk and butts are words that should not be combined.

When smoking in a non-smoking room always open and blow the smoke out the window.    Offer the housekeeping staff a liberal bribe because you eventually got drunk and just “smoked it up” anyway.

Did you just send out a heart-felt email to a long lost lover from high school?  Did you just cry?  Are you currently naked and peeing in the sink?  If yes, go to bed.

If any trusted coworker says at breakfast, “JESUS what the fuck happened to you!”  Trust them.  If you at breakfast say to a trusted coworker, “JESUS what the fuck happened to you?”  Cover their ass and extract all the tales.   Yeah that Sasha is a trip isn’t she?