After watching the following commercial, the three of us (TheMan, BIL and I) all sat in silence. I looked at TheMan, he looked over to BIL, who looked at me.

I’ve included it, for your viewing pleasure.

Exactly.
So we’re all staring at each other, and I open my mouth to say, “That was the DUMBEST commercial I’ve ever seen.”

The guys crack up, and say they were blown away by the stupid, also.

And *I* open my mouth, and I say, “And did you notice, he was effing BAREFOOT, too???” Like, clearly, omg, this is horrific.

Neither one of the two noticed that the guy in the commercial wasn’t wearing socks when he put on his shoes.

Please, internetz, did you??

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Six years.

Six years is a long time.

Six years is hardly anything.

Six years is everything.

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My husband and I have had a not even remotely fairytale story from the very beginning. At the point in history when my father decided to run my then-boyfriend off, we had been dating for about a year.

Now, as a little background TheMan was my first serious, lasted-more-than-a-few-weeks boyfriend. And he didn’t go to our church. He was Lutheran and we were quasi-Baptists. AND his mother owned a bar.

And we were boinking like horny bunny rabbits suspected of engaging in less than pure activities.

So there was, at the time, very little love lost between my then-boyfriend and my dad.

One day, shortly after my parents developed the aforementioned suspicions, TheMan invited me out fishing, with the guys.

I, being a young teen girl who was madly in love, chirped, “Oh, that sounds fun! I’d like to go!“ And then spent the next hour or so, until his planned arrival, picking the perfect outfit for fishing with the guys.

I see his truck pull up to the farm, and I grab my jacket. In the amount of time it takes me to grab a jacket and walk downstairs, he had already backed out of the driveway and onto the road.

This, of course, led to an ugly scene with my dad. But that’s a story for another night!

Later, I found out what had happened, according to TheMan.

Note: My dad was/is a farmer. This is important to the rest of the story.

Dad had been out doing chores when TheMan pulled in. Feeding something or other, or mucking out some building, or something like that. Farmer stuff.

Then TheMan pulls in. TheMan. Who has (possibly) sullied his sweet (and willing) daughter. To take her out, on a boat, on the river.

Oh, HAYUHL NO. So he marches up to the truck, and he informs TheMan that he needs to get gone. About 30 seconds ago.

Now, what TheMan SAW was an angry father, coming up to the truck, yelling and carrying a pitchfork!

Now, he could have taken the time to drive forward and pull around, because my parents driveway makes an awkward loop. But. Pitchfork.

So instead, this 18-year old version of TheMan chooses to back that truck, which is towing a boat, down the long driveway as fast as he can.

And he does. Hauling butt, with a boat attached, he gracefully backed down that long driveway, and onto the road. With nary a wiggle, or misplaced wheel.

What can I say? His driving skills charmed me.

*****

Many years after this, I mention the story to my dad. He gave me a funny look and says, “I was carrying the pitchfork? Huh. That explains why he backed up so fast!”

And then he walked away chuckling.

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My husband has long been intrigued by the idea of canning. Food. In jars. At home. Which I understand the practicality of it, and the idea of having the convenience of canned, with the yumminess of home-made is alluring. Truly.

But from what I remembered from my childhood, I thought the process would involve a lot sweat, tears and maybe even some blood. But he REALLY wanted to make his pickles, so fine, let’s make some pickles.

It didn’t go entirely smoothly. Example? We may have failed to consider how we were going to get the submerged jars OUT of the boiling water.

But it wasn’t too bad. So my husband starts talking about how he’s going to do it “next time”, and won’t it be great to have our own food in cans?

I ask him, “So what are you going to start home-canning?”

“Well,” he tells me, “We could do sauces, soups, veggies…pretty much anything you normally buy in cans.”

And so. I turn to him. And I say, with all sincerity…

“Oh, like tuna!”

….

The poor man.

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We’re in the kitchen. We’re trying a new brand of breaded processed frozen fish, but have discovered, alas, that we are out of tartar sauce.

No problem, we’ve both cooked for a living before, and have faced down worse situations on Friday Fish-Fry night. (Running out of tartar sauce? Hah. Try running out of fish!)

So we gather the needed ingredients (mayonnaise, relish and lemon juice), and pull out the trusty wooden spoon.

After inquiring about how long we have owned said spoon, and why it might, after six years, be time to buy a replacement spoon, and also discussing what is the correct size of the handle and the appropriate curvature of the bowl of the ideal wooden spoon…AFTER this….

My husband turns to me and says something about how wooden spoons are green. I ask “Oh, like recyclable?” He goes on and says something about renewable resource blahblahblah.

And after this thought-out theory on his part, I come back with, “Well, yeah. But you could recycle a wooden spoon, right?”

He looks me, and shrugs, “Yeah, I guess you could recycle it. You could sharpen it and make it a zombie shank, I suppose.”

Of course. Zombies.

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The husband and I don’t generally talk about where we met. Most people assume that, since we’ve been together since high school, we must have gone to high school together.

Yeah. Not so much.

I was working at McDonald’s. Drive-thru diva extraordinaire. He was hired on as a grill boy. Burger flipper. Not exactly a romantic venue to meet in. No locking of the eyes across the crowded room here thankyouverymuch.

I couldn’t remember his name for 2 weeks. We flirted back and forth, every time we worked together, for about 6 months or so.

Reluctant, we were.

Okay. I was reluctant, and socially awkward. So he wasn’t sure I was interested.

I wasn’t sure I was interested. I take that back. I was mostly definitely interested, with all the emotionality and physicality that 16-going-on-17 year old hormones can muster. But I thought I shouldn’t be interested.

I was on the cusp at that point. Dancing the line between hard-core religiousity, and wild child syndrome. I saw him as a “bad boy”. And perhaps, compared to the other members of my Sunday School class, perhaps he was.

Okay, compared to them? Yeah, he was a bad boy, a rebel, a wild card. But he really wasn’t THAT much of a badass.

So. Met at McDonald’s. Flirted for six months. AND I bailed on our first date (oh yes, I was at least as smooth then as I am now. At least.)

It’s no wonder he married me.

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