Typically, I write about my kids or the crazy things I experience. I got the feeling my husband was feeling a little left out when he asked, “So, where am I?”
Well, dearest, here you are.
My husband and I had a fairtytale beginning when we met almost 14 years ago in the basement of a fraternity house. Amidst the haze of beer fumes, I noticed him tending bar and thought, “Hey, this guy doesn’t look like a total douchebag; I think I’ll talk to him.”
One thing led to another, and I found myself inviting him upstairs to hang out. And drink kool-aid.
Seriously. It had been a long night and I was thirsty.
We had a long intellectual conversation about current events. Or we made awkwardly made small talk while mooning over each other. One of the two.
The point is, we parted ways that night without an exchange of phone numbers. Frankly, I was pissed off. We had a beautiful night of kool-aid and conversation. Didn’t that warrant him asking for my phone number? Apparently not.
According to him, he was trying to be suave and he planned on asking his roommate, who was dating my roommate for my number. I thought I had been mistaken in my assessment that he wasn’t a douche. So you can see how well his ploy worked out.
He finally got his head out of his butt and called me. He asked me to go to his date party with him, and for some reason I said yes. It must be because he is unbelievably gorgeous. I can’t resist him.
I prepared for the big night with great care. I picked out an ensemble that was sexy, yet casual, since we were going to a place that had a field, bonfire and barn structure for dancing. I show up, and he has a pelt for me to wear.
Did I mention the date party had a Viking theme? Yeah. And who is going to say no to their hot date when they ask them to wear a shapeless, grey pelt on top of their sex kitten outfit? Not this girl. I threw that pelt on like it was me who suggested wearing it.
Here I am, proudly pelted and making the rounds with my date’s friends. He goes to introduce me to one of those friends, and calls me, “Erin.”
My name is not Erin, it’s Carrie.
Not only have I been pelted, but I’ve been called by the wrong name. The whole hot and adorkable thing he has going on might not compensate for this.
What he said later was that he was bad with names. He thought my name was spelled Keri. And when my name didn’t immediately leap to his lips, he said all he could remember was “Eri” and thus, my name became Erin. Uh huh.
The date got better after that. It had to, right? We had great conversation, we danced and snuggled by the bonfire.
Later, we found ourselves dancing with other people. The guy I was dancing with was behind me when I felt him reach around to my front, and grab my boobs.
What the hell? I have now been pelted, called by the wrong name and felt up by one of my date’s friends.
I was a little tipsy, so of course I reacted very calmly. I ran in the general direction of my now husband, slipped in a puddle of beer and slid shin-first into a table. I thought I had broken my leg.
Are you keeping track? Pelted, name forgotten, felt up, and bruised.
I didn’t tell my husband about being felt up until after the date was over because I didn’t want to stir anything up.
I want to slap my younger self. I didn’t want to stir anything up? After the night I had, I should have stirred the pot, brought it to a boil, and then broken it.
Obviously, I found it in my heart to have a second date, a third date, and a lifetime of memories with him. Mostly because he’s hot, but also because he got rid of that ugly pelt.
Ponies and Martinis 