Last week you got my tragic blind date story. Didja like that? Yeah…good story.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and I have a little love story for you. It’s much nicer than the blind-dates-are-hazardous-to-your-health story, I swear. It even comes equipped with a happily ever whatever.
Ready?
In the spring of 1999, Margaret, a spinster from Illinois, went on a business trip to California. Not much of a hook, I know, but get this… She wasn’t supposed to go to that meeting that year. One of her co-workers was scheduled for the trip, but had to bow out. That’s when fate stepped in.
Dun-dun-dun!
Margaret’s business card was pulled from a hat, and she was awarded a trip to yet another conference. Oh, yippee skippee. In the fall of 1999, our heroine boarded a plane bound for Washington, D.C. Over six hundred miles away, a dark eyed man from Little Rock, Arkansas took off in the same direction, and…
Their gazes met across a stuffy conference room in rural Virginia…
They flirted….
There may have been adult beverages consumed…
And a game of Pictionary… (Uh, yeah, that’s what the kids call it these days.)
Some attendees claimed they spotted a couple kissing on the roof…
(Wait. What? You thought Pictionary was code for kissing? No, it’s charades with paper. Kissing is kissing. Sheesh. Have I taught you nothing? Read more smutty books!)
And our heroine said, “Oh, shit.”
True story.
By the end of the week, Margaret knew she had met THE ONE, but she wasn’t exactly ecstatic about it.
Falling hard and fast for a stranger seven hundred miles away from home was not part of her plan. It was supposed to be a harmless flirtation. Some laughs, a few stolen kisses, a little excitement to break up the monotony of eight hours of seminars each day over the course of five long days.
But, he was so sweet. How could any spinster resist those big, bittersweet chocolate eyes? And the drawl! Not the twangy, annoying kind, but the soft, slow slurring of syllables that was just enough to make a northern girl melt into a puddle of goo….
Margaret knew right away she was in trouble. She also knew that resistance was futile.
On their wedding day, her hairdresser stood her up, but her groom didn’t.
And they lived happily ever after – so long as he continues to provide Route 44 Diet Cokes, crack her up daily, and say sweet things in that slow, southern drawl.
The End
Now it’s your turn to tell me a love story. It can be your love for Nutella or the nut job you married. Either works. Ready? Go!
Oh! And Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope it’s a sweet one!
What do you get when you cross a dare with a cup of beer? The answer is sappy poems, a proposal and 30+ years of marriage.
I just love this love story! You give me hope. 🙂
I’m pretty sure I shared a peanut butter love story last time around, so now I’ll tell you about my love affair with Nutella. I had seen him several times in passing–on supermarket shelves, in commercials–but I never truly saw him until 2005. My roommate Lisa had a jar in the cupboard. One day she was out and about, and I was particularly hungry and without anything good to eat, so I sneaked a spoonful. Oh. My. God. By the time Lisa came home half the jar was missing. I, of course, bought her a replacement jar, and it was then that I discovered how expensive the delicious bastard was. But I knew in my heart he was worth every penny.
So that was the beginning of our seven year love affair. When things got boring, we mixed them up a bit. The first time I put him in the freezer we fell in love all over again. After I introduced him to peanut butter we had a threesome that people are still talking about. He brings so much joy to my life, and I can’t imagine my world without him.
Nutella face! http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q188/JewelsWorld/?action=view¤t=IMG_2709.jpg
Once there was this girl. Mousy. Shy. Liked to fade into the background. No guy ever gave her a second look, and no wonder. She went away to college and gave herself pep talks about coming out of her shell and being brave. Part of the bravery attempt involved accepting an invitation from the girl across the hall to go to *gasp* a fraternity house. (Or ‘den of iniquity,’ according to my mother.) There she found herself placed into a group with two other girls and the brothers of the house took turns quizzing them about high schools, favorite colors, ‘what’s your major?’ etc. and etc. Now, our mousy little heroine found herself in a group with her best friend. Said best friend was a girl with long auburn locks, deep green eyes, and she was — well, let’s be honest here — stacked. Guys’ heads normally turned when they met her. The other girl in the group was exotic, having decided to attend this godforsaken Midwestern school even though she was a native of Massachusetts. By the time each guy looked Nance over and chatted up the New England Deb, it was time to move on to the next group. Until…
“Hi,” Mike said, zeroing in our little mouse. “You’re the one who worked stage crew?”
“Why — yes — um — Yes, I did,” Mousey managed to stammer out.
Love at first sight? Of course it was. Except that he has no memory whatsoever of this momentous meeting…
But I never forgot. There was some tentative flirting. Late night trips to the library that just happened to coincide with when he got off work. There might have been a few hair twirls. Somewhere along the line his girlfriend disappeared. There was a snowball fight that he DOES remember. And finally, a real first date.
Did it last? Oh, yeah. Last Thursday we ate at McDonald’s, just as we have every Feb. 9th for the past 37 years, to celebrate that first date.
I’m still mousy and shy and would prefer to fade into the background, but I got the guy anyway. No wonder I’m such a pushover for a good love story.
These stories make me exceptionally happy. 🙂
Oh, my gosh. Tears. I have tears in my eyes! What a beautiful story!