In honor of my twelfth anniversary (June 11) I am going to
write a series of Monday Memories on how my wonderful husband and I met. I’m
not the first to do this. And if you haven’t read these other stories, I
suggest you do. I’m a sucker for a romance.

Background

The man I had been dating was smart, came from a wealthy
family, was studying to be a lawyer, and (I thought) liked by many. (It turned out a lot of people simply tolerated him because he was dating me.) In short, I
was sure this was the type of person my family wanted me to marry. Unfortunately,
over time and without my realizing it (though I certainly allowed it) he took
away my spunk, made me second-guess myself and my goals, and reduced me to a
jealous, spiteful person. I was a shell of what I once was. My friends pulled
me aside and asked what had happened? Where was the old Chilihead? My mother
lectured me about finding myself. I thought they were nuts.

Then we broke up. I
was devastated. I truly thought I was such a toad no one in their right minds
would look at me or take me on as a project (for that is what I surely was). I
spiraled into a deep depression. Although I am able to see now that I had been
struggling with depression for most of my life, at the time I was unable to
understand why I felt so lost.

Getting Out and Meeting People

My roommate took pity on me and tried to make me leave the
apartment. I finally relented and went with her to a party at her friend’s
house. That is the first time I met my now husband. He was wearing a long-sleeved oxford shirt with small orangish-red and blue paisleys. I was
certain I’d never seen a more hideous shirt in my life. (I still have it.) He
and I were both quiet and found ourselves in the living room away from the keg
in the kitchen. Rather than join in the raucous party, we played ball with the
dog.

Edited to say: So many of you asked for a picture of the shirt I felt I had to share it. Here it is.

The next week we all went to play pool and he and I were the
only ones not on a “date”. I was fairly certain I was supposed to hook up with
him, but I was not about to do it. He was nice, but I was not going to take a
pity date. We had a fun time and I went home with my roommate.

The next week we all went to Eskimo Joe’s for dinner. While
everyone else played pool, I sat at the table with FDH (future dear husband)
and watched him eat. I had to watch him eat because he wouldn’t talk to me. I asked questions, made comments, I did everything I could think of. Ocassionally he would grunt some sort of an answer. I
was certain at this point he must not like me and I was bothering him. I
went home early. (I came to realize the man does not talk during meals. Meals
are for eating, not socializing.)

Finally, the next week was my birthday and he joined our
party at Joe’s. I was turning 21. That night I drank to excess and said some
horribly slutty things to my future husband. Thankfully, he put me safely in a
friend’s car and was a complete gentleman. Although we still laugh about
portions of that night, he never holds it over my head.

We didn’t really hang out much after the semester started revving up. He would call every once in a while and invite me to a friend’s house or
over to watch basketball, but I always seemed to have a paper to write.

This is where I end this week’s installment. Next week I’ll
tell you some of the strikes the man had and why I almost never saw him again.

If you want to write your own Monday Memory, add your post below! (Make sure you link to your actual post and not just the first page of your blog. Thanks!)

I woke up every morning of summer and watched The Price Is Right, Sale of the Century, Family Feud, Wheel of Fortune, Concentration, Joker’s Wild, and several others that are eluding me at this very moment. Entire mornings were spent estimating how much a package of Rice-a-Roni (the San Francisco treat!) would cost if you averaged the prices from across the nation. I mean, obviously the cost of living is less in Small Town, Oklahoma so our Rice-a-Roni is less expensive than in LA so you have to take that into consideration. Seriously. Shut up. I was 10 and I rocked at game shows.

On Sale of the Century I would "shop" with them as they chose their final prize winnings. I consistently gave the top five answers (usually in order) in Family Feud. And the rest? Mere child’s play. The only thing I lacked was the need to run, screaming like a madwoman, down the aisle. I had no intention of spending my 15 minutes of fame acting like an idiot. Besides, I also wasn’t that interested in kissing Bob, Richard Dawson, Chuck Woolery, Wink, or any of the others. Ewwww. Old man lips. Gross. Now Ricky Schroeder? John Cusak? Ralph Macchio? C. Thomas Howell? Matthew Modine? Bring. It. Children of the 80s UNITE!

Want to play? Once your Monday Memory is up, you can put your link below. Please make sure you are linking to the post and not just the first page of your blog. Thanks!

Popcorn has been an integral part of my life. It is actually part of some of
my very earliest memories. My dad used to make popcorn and I would help him eat
it. We have pictures of me eating popcorn with him when I was a year old! I
would run up and grab a handful of popcorn and run off to eat it. Over and over
and over.

My parents were never terribly strict on bedtimes. If my brother or I went
to bed and couldn’t sleep we could get up and check out what was going on. That
usually meant sharing popcorn with my dad and snuggling in with my mom. As I
grew, I didn’t always leave my bed for the popcorn. By the time I was in grade
school, I was asleep and didn’t care if I missed the late night popcorn because
I knew Dad would make too much and he’d leave it in the bowl until the next
day. Saturday mornings I would wake up to watch cartoons and snack on the
leftover popcorn. That was my hands-down favorite food for a very long time.

You have to remember that I’m old enough to know what the world was like
before microwave popcorn bags. I can make popcorn on the stove. I can make
popcorn in an air popper. I can make popcorn from a bag. Of all of them my
favorite is the air popper. My family started out with the regular air popper.
Then we had a spiffy microwave air popper (it sort of looked like this only square). My mom gave it to me a few years ago
and I brought it home. My husband, aka The Consolidator, obviously didn’t know
what it was and couldn’t be bothered to ask so he threw it away. I pouted for a
very long time, but it didn’t bring back my popper. That Christmas my dad gave
me a regular old air popper…and I love it. I would venture to say that 80% of
the popcorn I make is air popped. I love the way it tastes, the fact that I
decide how much butter goes on, how the butter makes the popcorn kind of wet,
how I can salt as much or as little as I want. Heaven, I tell you.

Now when I make popcorn, I usually do it after the kids go to bed. I don’t
like to share my loot because they pick out all the buttery ones. Sure, I hear
about it when they wake up: “Mom! You know you aren’t supposed to eat popcorn
without us! You broke the rule!” Of course, that’s an arbitrary,
made-up-by-a-munchkin rule that doesn’t count in my grown-up world. I tell them
I’ll try not to do it again. They know I can’t help myself.

My dad still makes popcorn. He has a huge green bowl that, I swear, if you
actually filled it up with popcorn, it would take a week to eat it all. When I visit
him and his wife, we wait until my kids go to bed to make popcorn. Of course,
they hear it and smell it and just can’t help themselves so they come
tip-toeing out to the TV room with expectant looks on their faces. “Mom? I can’t
really sleep…oh. Did you make popcorn? Can I have some?” And I give them a hug
and let them curl up beside me on the couch to eat as much as they want.

If you decide to post your own Monday Memory, let me know and I’ll link to you!

I have been considering doing a weekly column post for a
while now. I’ve always thought it would help me to have at least one day when I
already know what I’m going to write about. Shannon encouraged me to brainstorm ideas and I have come up with Memory Monday.

As the name implies, every Monday I will write about one of my memories. Already,
as I’ve been thinking about which memories to write about, I’ve found some I hadn’t thought of in years. I
would love it if you all would join me. Our memories are where we came from.
Sharing them with others can give us all a new perspective on our virtual
friends. Your memories can be in words
or pictures or both! Let me know if you participate and I will provide a link
to you on my sidebar. 

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Although I consider myself to be an intelligent woman, I
have to say that sometimes I’m one taco short of a fiesta pack. Here is my
proof.

In high school two of my best friends were guys (for the
purposes of this story let’s call them Randy and Aaron). At least once every
weekend we would go out together and have a great time. I listened to them when
they had problems with girls and they listened to me as I bemoaned my poor
choices in dates.

One Friday night they picked me up from work. My
understanding was that it would be Randy, Aaron, Aaron’s girlfriend, and me. We’d
party hop, drag the strip, whatever. It’s Small Town, after all. If we didn’t spend
the whole night at the arcade we’d be ahead of the curve. Instead, we went to a
place we called The Grass Highway. It was basically a bunch of wheat fields
outside of town. I figured there was a party out there or something so I kept
looking for the other cars. Instead we parked the car and Aaron and his
girlfriend got out and said they’d be back later. Randy and I were in the back
seat.

Anyone see what’s going on here? Yeah, well, I didn’t. I
seriously thought we would be leaving in a few minutes after Aaron and GF found
what they were looking for and came back. I sat in the back seat of that car
and talked to Randy for two hours. Looking back on it, I see that Randy was
making several moves on me and I was oblivious to all them. It never occurred
to me that one of my BFFs would be making the moves on me. To this day I wonder
what would have been had I used my women’s intuition, or at the very least, my
brain. I can only hope that Wild Thing will be as naïve as I was and that
Max’s girlfriends will be just as clueless.

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