Friday, June 02, 2006


OK, I'll be honest

Whenever people find themselves in the company of a boring couple, like, for instance, my wife and me (I? No, definitely "me." Where's that wine...?) the awkward pauses in the conversation eventually dominate to the point where the desperate question comes up, "So, how did you [mouth-breathing dimwits] meet?" I love that. It is a sure sign that the conversation has been brought to its knees, usually because I am concentrating entirely on the plate of food in front of me, or lusting after the plate of food that someone else has yet to finish, or I'm just being moody, or maybe I haven't had more than 2 hrs sleep in a row for about 4 days. I always have at least 2 excuses ready for being a jerk. It's easier than not being a jerk, after all.

But, as usual, I digress. My point was the question, "How did you[tedious morons] meet?" The truth, of course, is boring. This is the nature of boring suburbanites of middle age and nondescript character. I realize this. I hate this. However, it gives me a rare opportunity. As a person without a speck of creativity, and dull in my very essence, I am particularly able to lie. No one expects me to have the imagination necessary for untruth, and my unexpressive (like Botox, one person has commented) face gives nothing away, so I can answer my favorite question however I like, and get away with it shockingly often, considering the answers:

-We tied for first at a pie-eating contest at the county fair.
-I was the "dummy" in her self-defense class.
-She won me in a poker game. My Dad has a "tell."
-I was left behind, along with some cleaning supplies, a wardrobe that wouldn't fit through the door, and a small rug, when my previous girlfriend moved out of her apartment.
-(can't use this one, because we gave it to another couple) We were extras on the same zombie movie.
-Third Nipple support group.
-Forced to marry by Kaiser Soze.
-Our marriage was a political necessity - it was just barely able to prevent all-out war between Bermuda and Nova Scotia, who are still peaceful if bitter rivals to this very day.
-and so forth.

I love doing that to people. It works best when people are just a little too afraid to offend us by saying "You are completely full of shit." The occasional person truly believes, especially the pie one, for some reason. I guess it helps that I (a) am gigantically fat, and (b) am fairly vocal about the fact that women who are afraid to eat/are perpetually dieting/whine about weight in general, are a total drag. Let them hang out with the skinny guys, I say, I don't need that crap. My wife keeps a normal size by worrying, or through a pact with the devil, or something, I don't really understand it, but whatever it is, I am thankful that I don't need to hear about it.

Am I digressing again? Did I mention that a good Cabernet/Shiraz blend makes coherent writing and linear thought as tricky as driving and operating heavy machinery? What the hell do the cats want? They have fresh water, and have had 3 cans of food already today. I bet they want the air conditioning on. Fur just sucks in this hot and muggy weather.

Aaaaaaaaaaaanyway, I didn't meet my wife while I worked the ticket line at the Dragon Coaster, having an argument about how being "this tall to ride this ride" cannot include 4-inch heels, because she isn't short. That's my sister, and I met her because she moved in when I was 4, and cried a lot. Tough to miss that. The boring truth about how I met my wife is that we lived 25 feet from each other during our freshman year of college, and shared a coed bathroom. We met during the first moments of orientation, when our hallway (the 2-5 side of Clara Dickson Hall, for all you Cornellians out there) had a mini-orientation. Yup, we met out of a shared desire for a single room on North Campus (the boring people's side, for all you non-Cornellians out there).

More interesting than how we met is the story of how a guy like me landed a woman like her. We didn't date for over 2 years, but we ate out together at least once per week, which was rare for that school - it's a big university in the middle of nowhere. I think there were 2 pivotal moments. The first was at that mini-orientation. Instead of the worn-out toilet paper trick or any of the other standards, we needed to tell the group what our shoes had done the previous summer. I don't remember exactly what my Sainted Wife said at the time, but I think it had something to do with the trip she and her Godawful Mother (did I mention that Sainted Wife doesn't read the blog? Where's that wine?) took to Europe. Yeah, she's totally out of my league. I know. My answer was that the shoes had been kicking overpriveleged children. I was a counselor at a day camp that summer, you see, in the suburbs north of New York City. I cannot even begin to explain that culture. [Shudder]. The next moment came not that long afterward, when she and a bunch of her friends were piled on a bed in another dorm, clothed if you believe her version and just being young and obnoxious, and one of them decided they had to call someone to celebrate the moment. I came up, apparently as someone likely to be in his dorm room on a Friday night. Sigh. They called me, and asked "Why does Teflon stick to the pan?" As a person who virtually never knows what's going on around him, or what anyone's name is no matter how long I've known them, or directions to anywhere (have I mentioned my sense of direction? Lost on the way to the bathroom in my own home, etc?) I came up with a rapid and straight-faced/ straight-voiced answer: Love. Now, some of you will remember that the Simpsons used "love" as the answer the computer gave the town scientist when it was asked for the secret ingredient for the Flaming Mo, but I was fortunate in that I was not talking to people who squandered their youths (youth? collective youth? I need an editor) watching FOX, so I burned myself into the memory of Sainted Wife, and after a few failed relationships with cooler guys than me, I got her. Go me. I'm going to go finish that wine and spin in circles like a demented dog at bedtime, trying to pat myself on the back. This entry is wicked long.

Your Humblest and Most Devoted Servant,

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