I wasn’t able to post on Monday because I was driving across the state, river to river, and I need to crank this one out quick because Forensic Files on isn’t going to watch itself. It’s a work trip, y’all, and I’m doing it in a ¾ ton Dodge Ram. (Grabs crotch, spits.)

Technically, yes. Actually, physically, yes. As a matter of fact, for over 40 hours since Sunday night, yes. Some weeks are crazier than others, and this one has been a doozy.

I visited my sweet mama in Nebraska over the weekend. We watched a little House Hunters, I pulled a garbage can full of weeds in her 2-acre yard, I made some lasagna, and we went through NINE boxes of photo albums. I took her out for Hot Beef Sandwiches, KENO (it’s Nebraska gambling) and pull tabs, because we know how to party.

On Monday, I drove a few hours and picked up the Intermediate KIA rental car for the work trip. I got to the rental lot, and my key fob was for a Dodge. Okay. I walked around looking for my Dodge car. I hit the Lock button on the key fob, and a ¾ -ton Bright Red 2026 Dodge Ram yelled, “BITCH I’M OVER HERE!”

I opened the door, got a small foldable stepstool, and climbed up into the cab. The side mirrors were bigger than my head. It smelled like Sandalwood and Aggression. Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel the Noize” automatically played on the stereo. There was a somewhat large (heated) ergonomic indentation in the driver’s seat for my testicles.

Maybe not in the older models, but the 2026 ¾-ton introduced this feature. Standard.

I started driving this beast, which I named Randy. I felt…powerful. Unstoppable. Like the rules didn’t apply to me. I started staring at the puny little kitten cars on the Interstate. If the driver looked back at me, I’d mouth, “What are you gonna do about it?” I listened to the Bob & Tom Show, because suddenly I WANTED to hear a fart joke.

I’m still driving Randy, but I have to turn him over to the authorities tomorrow. It was fun while it lasted, dude, but this couldn’t last forever. I’m married, for God’s sake.

When you tell people you’re traveling for work, they mistake your work trip for “fun”. I had a project in Miami a few years ago, and people would be like, “I’m so jealous!” and I’d have to break their little reverie and tell them I’d eat Subway in my hotel room and then coffee and a donut in a conference room and then a taco bar in another conference room. I can tell you that the conference rooms and hotel rooms look the same in pretty much every state.

When I checked in at this hotel at 9:00 p.m. on Monday, the very cheerful front desk person said, “Congratulations, you’re our Guest of the Day!” and she seemed genuinely happy for me. She pulled out a miniature version of the prize wheel on The Price is Right and told me to spin. She couldn’t wait to see what I won. I spun, and it landed on “Free room upgrade!!!”

I already had a king suite (it was the same price as the king regular room) and so unless I was getting the Presidential Suite there wasn’t anywhere to advance. Plus, work was paying for it. She looked a little sad for me. She pretended to look at her computer screen and said, “I got you a bit of an upgrade…” and we both knew it wasn’t true. Kelly, is there a “Free Bottle of Wine” space? Why couldn’t I land on the “50,000 points” space? She handed over two bottles of water and thanked me for my business.

I dragged my suitcase, backpack, extra bag, and bottles of water to the elevator and went up to my room. I walked in and was immediately slapped in the face by the smell of a large crock pot of beef rigatoni. I looked in the fridge, the microwave, the garbage…nothing. I could only presume that someone on the hotel staff decided to eat their dinner in my room and skated out of there when Kelly radioed them that I was on my way.

My one joy in work trip life is that I get to sleep diagonally across the bed with all of the pillows tucked around me like a nest, and then I turn on Forensic Files (on HLN, all night long!) and set a sleep timer for one hour. I fiddled with the remote for a solid 15 minutes, I tried every button and widget, no sleep timer. I was forced to fall asleep to one murder and wake up a few hours later to a different murder and turn the TV off MANUALLY. Not only was I murder-confused, I had to get my readers on to see which way was up on the remote to turn it off.

My alarm went off at 6 a.m. and I was TIRED.

I went to work and got a huge beige coffee (because I NEED my creamer.) I had a new dress on - I love it, it looks like my grandma’s cross-stitched tablecloths sewn together. I had to wear a slip underneath, because… linen. When I run a meeting, I don’t use the bathrooms during break because someone may need something, the computer network may go down, we may get nuked by Iran. I wait until it’s almost too late and jog to the bathroom, praying no one scares me or says anything funny.

Today, I made it to the bathroom, much to everyone’s relief. No one wins in a bladder fail. I wiped the sweat from my brow, because of course I was having a hot flash, and removed my smudged mascara. Presentable, I returned to the room.

After the meeting ended, my team went out for a victory cocktail. I had the raspberry margarita, it didn’t disappoint. Randy honked from the lot, pissed that I would get such a fru-fru pussy drink. I had the waitress take a Busch Light out and pour it in his gas tank.

Suddenly, I realized my slip was all bunched up. I sometimes forget there is a whole lot more of me than there was when I bought said slip, so after I use the bathroom, I need to be cognizant about tugging it back down into place.

It was then that I realized I wore dark gray cheetah-print underwear, VERY EASY to see through cream linen, which I pranced around in all afternoon. Terrific. I told my team about this wardrobe malfunction, and they all assured me there was NO WAY one could see my underwear through it.

What did this underwear look like? I stood up and pulled up my dress (in a very classy and subtle way; it’s a Mexican restaurant, I’m not a stripper) and tugged down the side of my underwear so they could see. I couldn’t see it because the underwear was below Mount Momhips and I can’t bend and snap like I used to.

They let me know that I was actually wearing light gray solid-colored underwear, cheetah day was yesterday. Thank God.

It was just another Day in the Wife.

I climbed up into Randy’s cab, hit the gas, drove over a VW bug and hauled ass back to Beef Rigatoni-ville to relax to a little arsenic poisoning for the insurance money.

Good night, Gentle Wifers.