Housekeeping

OK, the way haloscan is set up, you read comments without really knowing what post they're from. So I'm going to answer some questions left in the comments, but in no particular order.

First, Talula at Talula the Avenger wants to know how to blogroll. I left some pretty detailed instructions at Karma's site, in some comments here. Go check those out. If you have any questions, feel free to write me at bathroomreading@hotmail.com.

Second, a comment that Chelse made, about how she likes text messages, reminded me of a lesson I learned, which I'll now share with you. And yes, this is a gross generalization, and no, I don't want any comments about how you are atypical. Women are all about process, men are all about results. A guy climbs a mountain to get a rare crossbreed of rose and orchid. The mountain is in Peru. He had to walk there. Uphill...both ways. In the snow. With no shoes. The trek gets reported by the news, and the woman sees it. But on the way home, the flower dies. The woman swoons. Points forever. If a woman did the same thing for a guy, he'd say, "Boy, it really sucks that the flower died." No points. It's not the only difference between men and women, but it's a major one, and you should always keep it in mind.

And finally, some people commented on my missed-opportunity story, saying they wanted to know how it ended. Well, there are two stories: first, how it ended up between me and Anne. And second, how the story ended. I'll tell you the latter story now.

Almost seven years ago, I was at sort of a convention, and this woman sits down at my table for lunch. We talk a bit. She's really pretty (amazing blue/grey/gold eyes). Says her name is Jessica. The next week I see her again, at a lecture. I ask her out.

Our first date is on a Saturday night. I take her to a pool hall (fairly upscale...they were the in thing in 1998), and then to a bar downtown where a band I know and like is playing. Blues. I love the blues. I spent my summer studying for the bar mainly in a blues bar. But I digress. So we're playing pool and talking. She's not bad, and I'm not good, so it's evenly matched. Anyway, the discussion turns to what she's looking for in a guy. And she's talking about how he should be strong, but sensitive. Funny, but not a jokester. Manly, but gentlemanly. Tall, but short. Thin, but fat. And I say, "boy, you are never gonna find a guy like that. You expect too much." I spend the rest of the evening apologizing for that remark (even though I meant every word). It turns out, she was describing me. So we go to the band, and have a rip-roaring time. I decide she's really exactly what I'm looking for. So we go back to her place. I ask her out on the second date while we're still on the first. And, in the first of my wearing-my-heart-on-my-sleeve actions, I ask her out for a movie, the next night.

So Sunday night I pick her up, and we go see The Wedding Singer. Fantastic date movie. Good guy wins in the end. Although there's not much of a victory lap, it's still good. This starts, by the way, the Adam Sandler tradition that we have. When we come out of the theater, it's drizzling. We run across the street, and she slips. Now, when I say she slips, I don't mean in a dainty, womanly way. I'm talking both feet out from under her, up in the air, coming down right on her ass kind of way. You generally only see that kind of thing in the movies. So I scoop her up out of the street (there are cars coming), and we get to the other side. We're both laughing. Her, because she's totally mortified and embarrassed. Me, because, frankly, it was really funny. So we get in a cab, and I drop her off.

She's thinking, I find out later, that I'm never going to call her again, because of "the incident." That's the fall, for you men (I assume my women readers understood that without being told). She figures she so humiliated herself that there's no redemption. She can't sleep that night. She's thinking and thinking, "why didn't he ask to come up? Because of the fall, of course. He doesn't want to go out with a klutz. What can I say, on the million-to-one chance that he calls again, that will play it off as funny, but not important?" And the like. All night she's thinking.

Me, I was tired. So I went home and went to sleep. [And let me add for the women out there: Ugh! Typical man!]

So I wake up the next morning, and as soon as manners permit, I call her.

Here's the conversation. In my own defense, I was hampered with a romantic mental density so intense that it caused a gravity field that buckled my apartment's brick walls, and a near-terminal case of heart-on-my-sleeve syndrome.

"Hi, it's BR. I had a really good time last night."
"Yeah, it's only our second date, and I'm already falling for you."
"Aw, I'm falling for you, too."
"I was talking about last night."

DOH!

So now my intentions are clear. Crystal. And we go out again that night. So after our date (I frankly don't remember what we did on the third date), we're back at her apartment. Get your minds out of the gutter, I was a complete gentleman. So I say, "I'm going to ask you to marry me." And she says, "I'm going to say yes."

72 hours. One weekend. That's all it took to change my life. I bought her a ring a couple of months later, and we made it official. But for us, we knew that third night.

It's six years later (and one month, 20 days), and we're married with three incredible kids. Or, at least, two incredible kids and one incredible baby. He's just starting to smile at me.

That's how that particular story ended. Of course, I'm making a totally new story now.