Five Years of Shit

My husband and I celebrate our 5-year wedding anniversary tomorrow. 5 years! The time is flying by, but I guess that's what happens when you marry someone after knowing them for 2 months. (Well, unless you count internet time, then we've known each other for 9 years before getting married. So there.) People around us are breaking up, getting engaged, getting divorced, having babies, trying to find someone worth dating, sometimes a combination of the above. I think we're fairly rock solid. Here is a montage of our 5 years:

The First Date
If you're surprised that you haven't heard this story yet, keep reading. You'll see why.
The first real date we ever had was when Hup first came out to visit. We went to Woodman's of Essex. Because I had been fasting for oh.... 7 months before this day, my stomach had become very sensitive to greasy junk food. And because I don't eat seafood, I ordered the fried chicken dinner with onion rings and french fries. What came next was sheer horror. We were about 10 minutes from Woodman's, on our way home. If you're not familiar with this part of the north shore, let me just say that there is NOTHING between Woodman's and the Liberty Tree Mall. It was in this stretch of nothingness that my stomach started to gurgle. I'm not talking digestion noises, I'm talking full-fledged "I'm-about-to-shit-my-fucking-pants" noises. Think Jeff Daniels in the bathroom scene in Dumb & Dumber. I had no choice but to pull the car over on the side of the highway, run to the closest point out of the headlight beams, and drop my pants. It was a very close call, and a truly euphoric experience. Well, it was euphoric until I had to get back into the car with this guy who I had just met, with my butt still drippy from chicken diarrhea. We drove with the windows down until we finally found a gas station, at which point I went into the bathroom to wipe (finally!) and then threw my underwear away. In isolation, this probably would still be my most embarrassing moment, but the truth is, so many similar occurences have happened so often after this night that it's merely a blip on the radar.

Everything I program, I program for you
While most husbands buy their wives flowers or jewelry or whatever else it is that women supposedly like, my husband writes programs for me to show his love! Example: http://www.urbanrecluse.net/pacemate/#Description
I love my computer geek!

Paging Dr. Adams
A few months ago when I was experiencing vertigo, Hup very diligently looked up my symptoms, diagnosed me, and then went to the pharmacy to speak with the pharmacist about what I should take. He came home, brought me a glass of water, and gave me non-drowsy dramamine (containing 15mg of meclizine.) The next day, I paid $15 for the doctor to tell me the same thing and write me a prescription for 15mg of meclizine that cost 10 times more than non-drowsy dramamine. Do I insist on going to the doctor because I pay so damn much for health insurance??? Oh wait, let's not take this blog entry in a new direction. No one wants to hear my opinion on the health care system in America when I could be talking about poop.

For Better or For Worse
Let's just skip to the "For Worse" section of the story, shall we? I had gone out drinking with my co-workers last summer, and got the drunkest I've ever been in my whole life. Drunker than when I drank Mad Dog 20/20 on Glenville Ave. Drunker than when I threw up at my own wedding celebration dancing to Cottoneye Joe. Drunker than when Emily & I went to Prague, rode in the back of a stolen postal truck, bonded with french speaking Czechs at the pool hall, peed my pants because I thought that everything Emily said was so funny, and finally passed out in a bathroom stall with my head on the toilet seat. Got a good perspective on it now? So there I was at the Brewery, sitting nicely with 8 of my co-workers at an outdoor table, when finally my body decided that that last kamizee shot I had was one too many. I puked everywhere, including down the front of my white t-shirt that I was wearing. With some help from my friend Kim, we managed to find our way to her condo in downtown Lowell, up the elevator to her floor, down the hallway to her door, and through her hallway, dining room, and living room to the couch. She deserves all the credit because I was happy sleeping at the table in my pile of puke, then on the sidewalk, then in her car, then in the elevator, then in the hallway. The couch was a delightful choice on her part. Before I totally passed out, she made me sit up so I could drink water. As soon as I sat up, I knew what was coming so I motioned like, well... like a drunk person who is about to throw up, and Kim brought me the first receptable she could find: the dog dish. In between ralphing noises, I remember laughing and saying, "haha... blahrahugh!... is this... blahrahugh.. a DOG DISH? hahahablarahugh!" Kim left me on the couch with my dog dish, but a few hours later, I woke up with the urge to take a dump. I made my way to her bathroom and pooed out some of the sickness, only to find that there was no toilet paper. Jesus, do I need to carrying my own roll everywhere I go? Since I was not in a public gas station restroom and could not just wipe with my underwear and then throw them away, I had to improvise and do what needed to be done. I found the only disposable tissue and/or toilet paper I could find... in the trash can. This, people, was an all-time low, even for me. Don't think I don't recognize that. I went back to sleep on her couch, woke up at 6am, and knew that it was time for me to go. I had to get home to get ready for work. I snuck out of her condo, only to get lost trying to find the elevator. When I finally found the elevator, I had to share it with some yuppie suit & tie type who was headed to work, probably taking the commuter rail into Boston to trade securities or whatever it is that people who wear ties to work do. Contrast him with me: my hair was a mess, I was wearing the same clothes that I slept-in, puked on, and wore to work the day earlier, and probably smelled like a combination of dog food, bud light, triple sec, and bile. Oh, and, I probably had Kim's boyfriend's snot stuck in between my buttcheeks. So, what does all of this have to do with our 5-year wedding anniversary? I called Craig to come pick me up, ("I don't know where I am, just drive along Market Street until you find me.") And he did. And he drove me home with my head hanging out the window of his company car with the logo covered in my puke. And he didn't seem to mind. Isn't that the most romantic story you've ever heard??

In lieu of a good story of something that has happened recently, here is a sample of the conversations we have had in the past couple of weeks.

Baby Talk
Me: If we had a girl, what would you want to name her?
Hup: I like the name Samantha.
Me: That might be ok, but I'd want to call her Sam. Wait! No! We can't name her Samantha!
Hup: Why not?
Me: Sam Adams? I don't think so.

Marital Misunderstandings
Hup: Do we need toothpaste?
Me: I think we have half a tube left.
Hup: No, I mean, do humans need toothpaste?

Hup: (At the Red Sox game) Who started the wave?
Me: I think the people in the bleachers did.
Hup: No, I mean, who was the first person to ever start doing the wave?

The longest Good-bye
Hup: Bye Effie!
Me: Smell ya later!
Hup: Smell your poop!
Me: Sniff it!
Hup: Lick it!
Me: Fry it up and eat it!
(*note from the author: I couldn't resist one more poop reference)

Happy Anniversary Hup!