Ten years ago next week — May 9th, 1997 — my husband-to-be and I went out on our first date.

I had a mangorita, he had a vodka rocks. I was so nervous I dropped a hunk of bread in my water.

When we got engaged two months later — not quite two months even, because really, why waste time? — we were in Lisbon, Portugal. He took me there to introduce me to my future mother-in-law, who was working there at the time. If you have never been to Portugal, I highly recommend you get your booty over there. They have it all — romance, the gorgeous ocean, incredible beaches, castles and nice people, great food, streetcars that go careening around hither and yon. And Portuguese, which I do not understand one word of. I barely speak English, I think that’s probably obvious by now.

So when we went out for Chinese food, and the six-foot-tall Chinese waiter came over to our table and asked me, in Portuguese, what I would like for dinner, I turned to Hockey God (who was not yet Hockey God, he was just this cool guy I’d run off with to Europe) and he ordered for us. In pretty good Portuguese. Which he had never spoken before. That, to me, was very cool. I did not drop my bread in the water this time, mainly because no bread was served.

More about Lisbon: It is sunny there, and they have funiculars. Funiculars! Also we ate a lot of ice cream.

But we had no rings! So off we went to Iowa City, Iowa, after a brief visit to Prague (for my beau) and a trip back to Portland (for me) and bought a couple of gold bands at a jeweler’s downtown. Then I met my father-in-law and stepmother-in-law for the first time. I may have dropped my bread in my water glass. We had a fun trip.

(that’s us)

Happy Anniversary, sweets. It just keeps getting easier, doesn’t it? HA!

To those of you pooh-poohing this idea, this grand scheme to leave the moldy-wet, expensive and fast-paced Pacific Northwest and move to my husband’s hometown of Iowa City, I ask, do you even know what the Big Ten schools are?

Harry: Yeah, nothing from her, not even a smile. So I downshift into small talk, and I asked her where she went to school and she said, “Michigan State,” and this reminds me of Helen. All of a sudden I’m in the middle of this mess of an anxiety attack, my heart is beating like a wild man and I start sweating like a pig.
Sally: Helen went to Michigan State?
Harry: No she went to Northwestern, but they’re both Big Ten schools. I got so upset I had to leave the restaurant.
(from “When Harry Met Sally”)

And without further ado, they are:

* University Of Illinois
* Indiana University
* University of Iowa (which is IN IOWA CITY, thank you)
* University of Michigan
* Michigan State University
* University of Minnesota
* Northwestern University
* Ohio State University
* Penn State University
* Purdue University
* University of Wisconsin

I know. Penn State makes it eleven but everyone still says Big Ten. Midwesterners are generous that way.

Also, the naysayers are not the readers of this blog. Oh, no. All of you are asking me, “How can you put up with that rain? Yes, move. Damn. You cannot build a rainman, can you?” No, and I would not want to. I am saying, “We will move.” And we will. Because I am Through with this place. Through.

See? I blame it on Nora Ephron.

Harry: There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.
Sally: And Ingrid Bergman is low maintenance?
Harry: An L.M. Definitely.
Sally: Which one am I?
Harry: You’re the worst kind. You’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance.
Sally: I don’t see that.
Harry: You don’t see that? “Waiter, I’ll begin with the house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing. I’ll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side, and then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side.” ‘On the side’ is a very big thing for you.
Sally: Well, I just want it the way I want it.
Harry: I know, high maintenance.

For this week’s Thursday Thirteen:

THIRTEEN THINGS MY HUSBAND AND I DISAGREE ON:

1. Sex. He says we waited too long after we met; I say we didn’t wait long enough. (Case in point #1: 10 pound 2 oz. baby girl Wacky. Case in point #2: 9 pound 6 oz. baby boy Wacky. Both inherited his ginormous head. C-sections, thanks for asking.)

2. Using prepositions at the ends of sentences. I say yay; he says nay. I repeat that old joke: Guy 1 asks Guy 2: “Where’s the library at?” Guy 2: “Ah, ah, ah — no preposition.” Guy #1: “OK. Where’s the library at, asshole?” HA!

3. Ice cream and other desserts. As long as I’m working out, hell yes to one dessert a day. (Today I had three. Whoops. But I worked out like a madwoman! I’ll make up for it the next few days. I mean it, Internet. I’ve been losing weight and I want it to stay that way.) He says, What are you, crazy? The kids say, Did someone say chocolate sauce? Vanilla ice cream?

4. Plastic stuff. I like plastic stuff. He prefers wood, or better yet, simplicity (ie — don’t buy the crap to begin with).

5. Dogs. I like dogs. He says no more pets.

6. I am not fond of cats. Especially ours, Pukey 1 and Pukey 2. He says he wants for us to always have a cat. Well, I don’t like spiders. Or mice. So we’ll probably always have a cat.

7. Gardening. I say plant the tomatoes mid-May; he says it’s not warm enough until second week in June.

8. Church. I like church. I believe in God. Not like a white guy, throne, long flowing robe, no no no. I mean more of a great spirit, higher power. My girlfriend (who is a devout Christian) was over today and I’m pretty sure she noticed Steve’s new read that was out in plain sight, The God Delusion. She’s open-minded, I don’t think she’d be offended, if she did see it, but I never want anyone to feel like we’re nyah-nyah-nyah, y’know?

9. Sunday School. I’ve always wanted the kids to attend, he’s always been against it. Then he realized it meant three precious hours to himself every week and now he’s a regular Homer J. Simpson, making Moon Waffles and sleeping in with the dog. I jest. He doesn’t even like waffles.

10. He doesn’t care about a lot of the things I care about. “The Office” (American version). Pedicures. “General Hospital.” Avoiding work. Avoiding housework. Going to the Caribbean. Buying a new puppy. Getting an Impala someday. “Just because I don’t care doesn’t mean I don’t understand.” — Homer J. Simpson. I take comfort in this. I mean, look at Homer and Marge’s happy, long-running marriage. If they can make it, dammit, so can we.

11. I like to vacation in hot places (see above: Caribbean). He doesn’t want to vacation anywhere there’s not hockey. Or at least a hockey rink. Or at least an ice rink. Or at least pond hockey.

12. When we talk about moving it comes down to this: Must be Blue State where they play hockey. I am somewhat more flexible. Savannah, I’ve heard, is gorgeous. Austin is supposed to be rockin’. Somewhere in Arizona? Colorado? Arkansas, where my family is? I mean, we’re talking about a large number of states, X’ed off just like that, if you say no Red States.

13. We agree on this: Agree to disagree and you’re good.

I can’t wait to get into bed with my husband at night. No, really. I cannot wait.

(more…)

Why does my husband hate Prince? I love Prince. Going back (waaaaaaaaaaaay back) to his first album. And second. And third. And now, 3121 his, what, three thousand one hundred and twenty-first album, right? Which is why he numbered it that? (That sentence is so ungrammatically correct.)

It sounds like old Prince and I love it. It sounds like new Prince and I love it. Here’s the main reason I’ve always loved Prince: When You Were Mine….

“I never cared (didn’t care)/
I never was the kind to make a fuss/
When he was there/
Sleeping in between the two of us…”

…which honest to God I listened to about eight million times in a row when I was 18. OK, I still listen to Prince, old and new, all the time now. I am an addict, are you happy? Now you know. That, along with, you know, Erotic City.

“All of my purple life/
I’ve been looking for a dame/
That would wanna be my wife/
That was my intention, babe”

Prince is funny! And funky! And he makes you want to screw! What else do you need in a song, damn. So I’m attaching Wacky Dee’s review of the new album, sent in a private e-mail to his friend Extremely Wacky T, who lives in Minneapolis. (Edited to say: Excuse me — he prefers “Hockey God” to WD.)

T told me that when he moved there they made him sign a pledge devoting lifetime allegiance to Prince. He was already a fan and said “YES WHERE DO I SIGN?” That, to me, IS REASON ENOUGH TO BAIL ON PORTLAND, ORE. AND MOVE TO MINNEAPOLIS.That, alone, is reason enough for WD to say NO to Minneapolis. Based on this, I have no qualms about publishing my husband’s personal e-mails. Huh. Is that wrong? “LITTLE JAPANESE IMPORT CAR” MY ASS, WD.

Prince is a 1959 Chevy Impala with fuzzy dice.

Here’s the e:

(more…)

When your hair looks this good, why waste it on a hockey game? That’s right. The Portland Winter Hawks have gone from being in almost last place to almost first place. See what a few weeks and Brandon Dubinsky will get you? Doo-by! Doo-by!

However. I do not know much about hockey. I do not even know if they won. (The score was 2-1, Winter Hawks, when we left mid-second period.) You will have to ask Hockey God about that.

“It’s boring!” says Wacky Girl.

“I am planning on never skating again,” says Wacky Boy.

So we left my husband at the game, sullen and grumpy because his family does not share his love of hockey, and went to Roux instead.

(more…)

A man and his wife are dining at a table in a plush restaurant, and the husband keeps staring at a drunken lady swigging her gin as she sits alone at a nearby table.

The wife asks, “Do you know her?”

“Yes,” sighs the husband, “She’s my ex-wife. She took to drinking right after we divorced seven years ago, and I hear she hasn’t been sober since.”

“My God!” says the wife, “Who would think a person could go on celebrating that long?”

World’s Shortest Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, “Will you marry me?”

The guy said, “No.”

And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, camping, drank martinis, always had a clean house, and never had to cook.

The end.

(My version: I bought a Kate Spade handbag tonight. It’s gorgeous. The end. WM)

“…if it hadn’t been/
for Cotton Eyed Joe/
i’d have been married/
a long time ago/
where did you come from/
where did you go/
where did you come from/
Cotton Eyed Joe…”

(more…)

“Marriage: a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters written in prose.”

— Beverly Nichols, author