Throwing Poo

Yesterday, after a severe allergic reaction to Allegra D (isn't there a word for that?), Nerdy Squirrel turned into Itchy, the Hive-Encrusted Misery.  A wicked rash spread over her body like it had been hit by the Genesis project torpedo from Star Trek II (and, less notably, Star Trek III).  

Of course, being the empathetic husband that I am, I spent the afternoon adding to her wretchedness by concocting as many awful puns as humanly possible: 

NS: How bad does this look?

ME: You should be on Mount RASHmore.  You know, it's actually Yom Kippur, so I don't know why you're celebrating RASH Hashanah.

NS: (Ignoring me) Maybe I need to go to the emergency room.

ME: Well, let's not make any RASH decisions. 

NS: I think it might be serious.

ME: At least it's Sunday, so we won't get caught in RASH hour.

NS:  (Walks away). Thanks for nothing, peckerhead.

ME: Wait, wait! Salman RASHdie! RASH Limbaugh! Arthur RASH! Um...um...RASHton Kutcher!!! 

While above petty revenge, she inadvertently paid me back in spades by spending the night tossing, turning, and scratching.  With a 7:30AM flight to Milwaukee this morning, I barely got a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.  Unfortunately, unlike heroin usage or chronic jock itch, lack of sleep has a profound affect on my ability to properly function in the real world. 

Though I felt a bit off, the morning flight was uneventful, other than the sleeping guy sitting next to me whose knee kept touching mine, making me want to crush his windpipe with a single, stealthy blow.  Then, at one point during the day, I attempted to call my sister and apparently dialed the wrong number.  Getting the voicemail of a Middle-Eastern-sounding man, I immediately hung up. (While I consider it rude to hang up on a real person when you dial the wrong number, I think it is pointless, desperate and creepy in equal doses to leave someone a voicemail message explaining that you dialed the wrong number.  Am I wrong about this?)  Now, I wouldn't even mention the suspected nationality of a wrong number if it weren't for the fact that the guy called me back and demanded to know my name.  Despite my explaining several times that I had dialed a wrong number, he persisted and I eventually hung up on him.  This was very unnerving and I now fear that I may have activated a sleeper cell.  Oops.  Sorry, Milwaukee. 

Later, I arrived at the Milwaukee Hyatt after a long day and attempted to check in.  Although I had left my reservation confirmation in the rental car with my maps, this had never been a problem before as long as I had my ID and credit card.  When the desk clerk could not find my reservation, I explained in detail how I had made the reservations myself and, if he couldn't get it straight, I would (exasperatedly) walk back out to my car to get the confirmation.  He couldn't, I did.  What I didn't do was look at it before I got back.

"See," I showed him, "pre-paid for Monday, August 28th, one night at the Milwaukee Hilton.  There is the confirmation number right there!"

"Sir," he replied, with a charitable lack of sarcasm, "this is the Hyatt.  The Hilton is a few blocks over.  Would you like me to give you directions?"

"Um...no, thank you." I folded up my papers and as I turned to leave.  "My wife has a rash and terrorists are trying to kill me."

I am the Craftsman of tools.