Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Love Song for Nine One One Part Two

After we got our picture taken together, Ben and I started to chat each other up. He knew words that had even more than two syllables and could put coherent sentences together. Ones that utilized a subject and a verb with clauses thrown in for good measure. He looked like a guy who wore his shirts with sleeves. This was an improvement from the last two people that I had dated. We had loads of things in common. He told me that he once asked my sister (who never once mentioned him to me, by the way!) if she had a sister. She said she did, but that I was married to a prick.

My brand new brother-in-law and his buddies, Ben included, had a strange tradition of dancing in their boxer shorts at each other's weddings. While this might sound kind of stupid, in my family the tradition was to dance the "Polka Slam". The rules are: polka around the dance floor as fast as you can, gaining enough centrifugal force to knock other dancers (your cousins) down. At my own wedding I ripped my dress during the Polka Slam. So who was I to judge? I knew about the boxer shorts dance in advance because under my bridesmaid's dress, I was wearing my own pair of boxer shorts over my garter belt and stockings. My sister wanted the girls to beat the guys to it by going out on the dance floor and pulling up our dresses for the big --yes, it's true-- Packer boxer shorts reveal. *sigh* Do I have to tell the rest?

Ben caught a flash of the garter belt and wanted it when it was the guys' turn to do the boxer shorts dance. He came up to me and asked me for my underwear. Being a demure, well-bred midwestern girl raised by an imaginary television mother, I said "sure!"

We found the coat room and locked ourselves in for the underwear exchange. Having given him my underwear, and he having put it on, there was nothing else to do but kiss. and kiss. and kiss.


The next day we were at my folks house for the gift opening. I offered to take him to the airport so he could catch his flight home to Richmond, Virginia. I waited with him for his plane in the airport coffee shop. Sitting there, I knew I was in love. But still, there had to be a hang up. Secretly gay? Not a chance. Violent streak? Psycho killer? Those are the charming ones.

After a week of long phone calls and hours of instant messaging I hadn't discovered anything seriously wrong. I told him that my plans were to move somewhere after Thanksgiving. I was seriously considering: Austin, Texas; Charlotte, North Carolina; or London, England. In fact, I had a plane ticket and hotel room all set for a trip to London set for the third week in September. The first thing that Ben said to this was that Richmond was much nicer than Charlotte (he later admitted this lie, sorry Richmond) and suggested that I come there for a visit. If I liked it, I could move in with him after Thanksgiving. Remember my demure, conservative side? So you know my answer: I immediately said "sure!" and cancelled my trip to London, choosing instead to drive to Richmond with the vacation time I had already requested.

I had known him a week.

I thought I should call my brand new brother-in-law and get the goods on him before I drove down there and got myself killed and thrown in a landfill or down a mountain. "What," I asked my b-i-l, "is this guy's problem? He seems perfect - so why isn't he married already?"

"He doesn't want to commit," said b-i-l.

Odd. He had already asked me to move in with him, in less than a week. That did not sound like commitment issues.

I made the trip to Virginia. The trip meter in my car showed that in the fourteen hour drive I had stopped for only thirty minutes total to buy gas. If your guess was that I did this feat on an incredible amount of Tab and cigarettes you would be correct. I must have stunk like an exhaust pipe by the time I got to his house. Eeewww.

During that week I made up my mind to move there. Ben took me to an Oktoberfest celebration at Fort Belvoir. We sat at long tables with guys from the German Luftwaffe. They barely spoke english and we spoke no German but we all had a great time. We hoisted those big dimpled glass beer steins and sang 'ein prosit'. I taught the Germans the polka slam. They needed to know.

Ben, laughing at me for being such a dork, said "will you marry me?" I answered (say it with me:) "sure!"

So much for commitment issues.

I moved in with Ben in November. We bought a house and got married in April at a friend's place in Jamaica. We flew to Jamaica as two and came home three. The following October Ben was transferred back to Wisconsin and we moved home, me seven months pregnant.

The End.


I should tell you a little about my alcohol issues, as a kind of a post-script. Obviously, I drove around under the influence. After I met Ben I did tone down my drinking. I didn't need to pass out every night just to shut up ugly thoughts in my head anymore. But in the time between meeting Ben and going to Virginia, I went to a bar where our mutual friend was bartending. I didn't have that much to drink (for me, I thought) and drove home. I got my second DUI that night. Ah, irony.

A second DUI means either house arrest with a Lindsey Lohan anklet or a week's jail time. Since I was already moving out of the state and had no home to be house arrested in, I chose the week in jail.

Can you imagine Ben's choosing me with all of that? Do you find it ironic that me, Ms. Flaming Flaws, would be so quick to dig for his imperfections? To this day I don't quite get how he managed that. In fact, while I was in Wisconsin doing a week in lock up, my dad was busily trying to contact me in Richmond, where he thought I was. Ben was so obtruse that my dad had figured Ben had killed me and dumped me in a landfill or threw me down a mountain and was about to go to Virginia to find out what was going on. Dad would call Ben and demand that he put me on the phone or else! My dad was saved the trip to Richmond to find me when one of the county deputies at jail, who happened to be his friend, told dad he saw me in the jail. Small world. Uggh.

Anyway, a week in jail in January followed a few months later by a pregnancy, went a long way toward fixing the cigarettes and alcohol situation. It's not a method I'd write a how-to book about, but it did work for me. Just this summer something reminded me that I used to be a person who smoked. The thought was a little like a friend telling you something about someone that you can't really believe. I did it for nearly twenty years, by the way. I can't drink and drive. If I did, I would get six months in jail. I don't think my babies would go for that. I know this sounds stupid, but I do actually like the smell of cigarette smoke (outdoors, like at a baseball game or festival) and have no problem with smoking - all smokers know how stupid it is, they don't need to be told by me. So while I am fine with smoking, I am zealous on the topic of drinking and driving. I am horrified by the fact that I did it in the past, and can't truck with people I know doing it now.

So it is eight years on. Two kids, two dogs, two fish. Most days I would say are 'happily ever after'. The other ones I'll just blog about.

Oh, and we still like to sneak into the cloakroom at weddings and make out, which is how we commemorate September 11th, 1999.


Evil Spock said...

Your Sept 11 commemoration is way better than Patriots' Day.

Wow, and here I thought you were miss goody-two shoes! I've been arrested a couple of times, but never jailed.

You're going to have to blog about your stint in the gulag!

Jess Wundrun said...

evil No doubt you were arrested for a no nukes sit-in, or on a Greenpeace ship or something noble like that. I am tempted to lie about the stint, but I can't. Just stupidity.

I look forward to telling the tale of my week in jail. (in the form of a country music song, maybe?)

Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein said...

My respect for you has grown one thousand fold after reading who you and your husband came to be. And just so you know I already held you in high regard before you spilled the beans about your alcohol and smoking habits.

You rock Ms. Wundrun.

Fran said...

Yes, Splotchy is right, if you had deleted that post we would have been robbed of this.

So very beautifully and tenderly written. It is very powerful for you to be so startlingly clear and honest about yourself.

There are not enough words for me to express my gratitude to you for this Jess.

dguzman said...

*sniffle* I told myself I wasn't gonna cry! *sniff*

Wow. Great story for the kids!

Suzy said...

Thanks for being so candid. I've never made out with anyone in a cloakroom at a wedding. Is it too late to start?

Distributorcap said... about renew one's spirit being renewed -----

i like your 9/11s better

thanks SO much for sharing -- i know it sounds cliche, but what the heck

Dr. Zaius said...

What a great story! That really brightened my day. I too have had two DUIs, both in my madcap youth. I don't drink anymore either.

Anonymous said...

I love this story.

I would have taken the jail time, too. Like ripping off a band-aid, just get it over with.

And natch, I'm a sucker for a happy ending and this is one of those truly delightful happy endings.

Jess Wundrun said...

Dr. MvM Thanks. You know I love your writing so I am flattered by your praise. We both had interesting quitting smoking methods, no?

Splotchy I nearly splotched myself when I read your post. It gives me little tingles.

franuis Because you were so honest in your 9/11 posts last week I thought maybe it was time to be brave myself.

dguzman Yeah, we usually skip the part about exchanging underwear in the coatroom when the kiddies ask 'mom, how did you meet dad?' Let's just hope they don't try to out-do us in their hormonal years.

suzy It is probably too late for you and I to make out in a cloakroom, but I'd say knock yourself out with anyone else!

dcap Your 9/11 story blew me away. Thanks for your thanks.

Dr. Z. Thank YOU! Of course it is all your fault that I am blogging anyway. I should clarify that I do still drink but I don't drink and drive. If there is no designated driver then it is me. One bad thing is that when I do drink I tend to physically drink like I used to i.e. gulp gulp. After three glasses of wine I can't sleep past 2 am and have a hangover all the next day, so it just might be time to move on to never drinking again.

dcup I promise to someday write about jail time, but it might be a bit anticlimatic and honestly, dull. "Jail" was a big dorm room with about 20 women in bunkbeds. You watch alot of tv. And if you don't read the paper that tells you to bring headphones, you watch alot of tv with the sound off. 'Cops' was a big jail favorite! There wasa crazy one-legged lesbian though......

Sorghum Crow said...

Damn, I love love stories.

Anonymous said...

Whirlwind romance, whirlwind blogging...

Diane M. Roth said...

I'm glad Fran sent us over, as it was, in a word, an inspiring story.

Anonymous said...

That's an astonishing story - I'm a sucker for a good boy meets girl.

Did your father ever forgive Ben or realize that he was actually being valiant? I love that part of the story, I totally can see it.



Jess Wundrun said...

Tengrain My dad's first comment to me when I got back home and talked to him was how lucky I was to have someone so incredibly, troublingly loyal.

So it was never a question of forgiveness for my dad, it was immediately esteem. I'm glad you asked.