Write On: How I Met My Husband, or, Chivalry Isn't Totally Dead

Tattoos and Teething Rings gave us some writing prompts for her new Write On gig. Tats is one cool chick and she recently sent me a neat book, Judaikitsch: Tchotchkes, Schmattes and Nosherei, just because she's nice like that. Thanks, Tats! Go check her out and link up!

Anytats, the prompt I've chosen to write about is:

How did you meet your husband/wife (or boyfriend/girlfriend)? Was it love at first sight? Did you think he/she was completely obnoxious? Maybe it was your worst date ever?

In October of 1999, some friends asked if they could set me up on a blind date. I reluctantly agreed. George and Laura are dear friends and a darling couple, and for years I baby sat for their three daughters regularly. As most of you know, I am Jewish by birth, but until I met George and Laura I didn't really begin to embrace my Judasim. They inspired me to start learning everything I could. They included me in their weekly Shabbat dinners, invited me to services with them, and I often celebrated Jewish holidays at their home as well.

George is a surgeon and one of his interns,"D," also Jewish, was lonely single and asked him over the high holidays if he knew "any nice Jewish girls." George replied that as a matter of fact, he did. Laura scribbled my name and digits on a tiny piece of paper and discreetly pressed it into D's palm. He still has the small scrap stashed away somewhere. She also wrote my age and that I was a grad student.

D called me soon after and he we talked for an hour. At the end of the call, he asked if I'd like to meet him for dinner. I quickly agreed and grabbed my planner so we could discuss dates.

"How about tomorrow?" he suggested.

Whoa, Nelly. I squashed down the fear that had catapulted itself into my chest and squeaked out, "Sure!"

Fast forward to the following evening. A black Honda Passport pulled into my driveway promptly at 7:00 p.m. I'm dressed in a grey twinset and a navy blue skirt, but my hair is still dripping wet and my dog, Keats, is having a coronary at the prospect of company. I'm flustered and answer the door leaning over to hold my dog back and afraid to look D in the face.

"Please-come-in-make-yourself-comfortable-excuse-my-dog, he-will-calm-down-after-you-let-him-hump-your-leg-for-a-few-minutes. I'm-going-to-finish-getting-ready-now, mmm-kay?" I say in a breathless rush as I dash back to my bathroom, closing the door quickly behind me and letting out a giant sigh of relief all at once. He's cute!!

Once I've finally managed to stop sweating under the blow dryer make myself presentable, we leave my apartment. D actually has a nice car which may as well be a Mercedes compared to my ex's 25-year old heap of green he affectionately called "Esmerelda." D takes it up another notch by gallantly opening my door for me and closing it once I settle myself in. As he walks back around the front of the car, I suddenly know this is a man---not a boy---that I am going on a date with. My stomach starts doing flip flops.

During dinner at a quaint little Italian place, D tells me his entire life story regales me with tales of his childhood over soft candlelight. I try to ignore the Eggplant Parmigiana (my favorite) on my plate because I'm too nervous to stuff my face in front of someone I've just met. The check comes too soon, and D refuses my offer to split the bill. More brownie points for D!

Big score for this guy so far. Not only did he come pick me up in his nice/clean car, he opened the door for me. He let my dog hump his leg and then he paid for dinner! This guy is a keeper!

I'm not sure I knew immediately that he was The One, but it didn't take long. I'm lucky he didn't dump me after our second date, when he took me to see American Beauty on its opening night. I was worried it would be sold out, so en route to the theater, I told him, "The speed limit is 40, but you can go 50," and he laughed at me while he gently accelerated.

As we shared popcorn and peanut M & M's, I kept stealing sideways glances at him. I liked what I saw. When he dropped me off after the movie, he was apparently going to let me go inside without a kiss. But I wanted him to know how I felt, so I planted a big one on him. Yes, I kissed him first!

I suppose that first kiss sealed the deal. We got married on December 1, 2001!

To Vlog or Not to Vlog--That is the Question. Or, Why I Embarrass my Husband.

Many of you may have watched my vlog from Thursday about Why Jazzercise is Evil. If you haven't already done so, please check it out here. Then come back and read this.

Are you done? Okay, good.

My husband said my vlog really sucked suggested I quit vlogging and revert entirely to the written word. He told me that I look like an old corpse unearthed from its tomb half eaten by maggots "depressed" in the video and that my real self comes through so much better in plain writing. Last night at dinner my friend, Anne, quipped that perhaps Hubs simply missed the boat with my deadpan sense of humor about those damned Girl Scout cookies (which I bought myself, shame on me---it's all my fault, but that is neither here nor there). She was spot on. I was trying to be funny, but perhaps I shouldn't quit my day job. I will obviously never be Chelsea Lately. Regardless, I patiently explained to Hubs that vlogging is a nice break from the standard stuff, it's fun, and it gives people a chance to see "the real me" in all of my unshowered glory. I mean seriously...you guys don't even have to pay for this shit!

So, dear readers, here is where YOU come in. I want to hear from you---ALL of you. Even if you aren't a follower (sobbing), even if you only read sporadically (boo hoo hoo!), even if this is your first time reading my blog (please come back again!). Leave me a love note in these comments. I've set things up so that anyone & everyone can comment---you don't have to sign in, you don't have to create a username/password, you don't have to be registered, pay anything, sign over your life....all you have to do is click on "Post a Comment" and then write whatever you want in the pretty little white box below. It really is that easy peasy, I promise. I'm begging you to be brutally honest. Tell me the vlog sucks. Tell me you love it. Tell me you're indifferent. Just tell me something. Either prove my husband wrong and stroke my bruised ego or tell me straight up that the vlog is not my forte and to throw in the towel.

And as long as we're on the subject: If you don't ever comment, I have no idea you're reading.

Letters I Write But Don't Have the Cojones to Send (Husband Edition)

I'm once again stealing from Kyslp at Stir-Fry Awesomeness, who recently posted "Letters I Write But Don't Have the Cojones to Send Husband Edition," which you can read here. If you aren't reading/following her, SHAME ON YOU. Get up off your lazy bum & visit her now, she's the best! My lame attempt is below if you don't get too wrapped up in her blog and forget about little ole' me.


Dear Husband,

While I appreciate that you work hard every day to provide us with a lovely home, beautiful things, food to eat, and nice cars to drive, I do not appreciate your frank stupidity and your utter lack of sound judgment.

You are a doctor, a very noble calling to be sure. I admire what you do because I couldn't even get through Intro to Biology in college, let alone Algebra. You are quite talented and there's no doubt in my mind that you are the bee's knees.

That being said, today you clearly left any common sense you had at home in your sock drawer.

Fraternity reunion weekend. I soooooooo get it. You want to be with your friends, consume mass quantities of alcohol and act like idiots (just like you did in college). I generally accept this and don't give you shit about it. You work hard, you deserve to play hard.

But today that all changed. Today you suddenly decided it would be a fabulous idea to play flag football. FAB-U-LOUS. I considered saying something subtle before you left, but (a) I'm not your mother, (b) you are an adult, capable of making your own decisions, and (c) I didn't want to be the naggy wife. So instead I kept my mouth shut.

A little while later, you called. You said, "I broke my shoulder."

I laughed. I knew it was a joke. I mean, c'mon! You're a SURGEON! Surgeons don't do dumb things like play contact sports which could result in serious injuries which in turn could result in not being able to, oh, OPERATE ON PEOPLE?!!?!?!?!?

But it wasn't a joke. You told me it was for realz. So I threw the kids in the car, dropped them at my in-laws, and immediately went to the ER.

You are now on pain meds, in a sling, and I'm livid. Oh, but wait. It gets better. You came home, showered (with my help), got dressed (with my help), and you went back out. With the fraternity guys. To some banquet dinner thing. I am trying to remain calm. But what part of you thinks it's a good idea to go out on the town when you've just suffered a major injury?

For once, could you suck it up and realize you're not 18 anymore and partying like it's 1999 just isn't an option?

If you're not home by 10 p.m. tonight, I am so going to bed and you will have to sleep in your button-down shirt or find someone else to help you re-do your sling and ace bandages.

By the way, if you are feeling well enough to be out on the town tonight, don't think for a second I'm skipping my Girls' Night Out on Monday. No sir. The one saving grace about this little incident is that you will be around more. No work, no golf....hey, maybe I should be grateful this happened?!

No, I think not.

Love,
Your Very Angry and Resentful Wife