When did you know your spouse was 'The One?'

I keep wanting to write a new one. But nothing is going to measure up to Care Bear's epic.

 

I blame Pink Floyd.

 

I went straight from the Bobby Petrino thread to this one, so I don't know what to believe about love anymore.

 

You should start one. I'll finish it.

 

We agreed to meet up. Truth is, she was using me for my wheels. But I'd ridden these tracks before. I still have two tanlines on my ring finger to prove it.

This one would be different. We'd met online. She was cute, and I got the sense she was into similar things. She liked wool and sports. Copy editor, I think. Not really sure.

I wouldn't push this one. This one would be different, right? I'd pick her up. We'd talk. Just talk. I promised.

The date couldn't get too handsy. Nothing good happens then. But man, I was nervous. My hair looked good, though. I had lifts in my shoes. First impressions, you know?

I'd blown it with the last one. Took her to Vegas. Moved too quick. Too many diet sodas. You know how things go. I wouldn't do that again. I had worked too damn hard.

Admittedly, we didn't know each other well. I said something nice about her a few times, hoping she'd get on top of me. We'd talked wool. I'm a competitor. I blame my stature. I don't like looking up to anyone. Hence, the lifts.

I grabbed my bottle of Viagra. I put it down. This wasn't the time or the place. It's a first fucking date, Mister, get yourself together. This is why you always blow it.

I cleared my colon. And my vas deferens. Got the idea from some friends. Same group I had met her with.

She was only in for a weekend, though. This first impression had to be money, and I couldn't have cum up to my eyeballs, which doesn't take much in my case. The lifts make me look better. The head of hair doesn't hurt.

I asked my friends how they knew when it was love. I didn't want to jump to conclusions. Been there, done that. The time was right, though. Should have happened in Vegas, but she was looking for a second baseman. I only slide home, if you know what I mean. Shit, man. I haven't scored in a while. I could use a fucking smoke.

No. No smokes.

I got the car ready. You ever heard that tip, wipe down the inside frames of the doors? That shit's fucking classy. I forgot to do it on prom night. Didn't get laid.

Plucked my unibrow just right tonight. Friends said Anthony Davis was making it work. Last chick I'd met from this site went to Kentucky. Didn't need a repeat.

Texted a friend. Swigged a Miller Lite. Ate a peanut butter sandwich. Crunchy. I even add extra unsalted peanuts in just for the hell of it.

Time was ticking. Looked at my watch. Got in the car, airport-bound.

It took about 30 minutes for her to find me. I was in the pickup zone, but I'd forgotten to mention that I drive a Mini-Cooper. It's easy when you're this tall.

I looked at her. That's when I knew. She was stunning, better looking than either of my ex-wives. So I told her she was smart.

She wasn't. She'd chosen me. She'd chosen to ride the Creosote Shuttle.

I'd brought the sheep suit, just in case.

...

My apologies, copperpot. You're an innocent bystander and a perfectly nice person, I'm sure. But you choose to ride the Creosote Shuttle, you need to know the potential consequences. Oh, and I guess I'm sorry to you, too, IJAG.

 

Why apologize to me? I was the one who was smart enough to run away!

 

I'm sorry that you ever had to go through that.

 

Man, IJAG, I used to respect your initial judgments

 

To be fair, we walked everywhere in Vegas. But he could fit in a Mini Cooper. And still need phone books.

 

I thought Tell a Lie Day was last week?

 

I popped the latch under my steering wheel and released the trunk. She had a couple of suitcases that looked pretty wide. They wouldn't fit in the backseat.

She stood there for a moment, on the curb, staring at me through the passenger window. What the hell was she looking at? Then it dawned on me. "She's admiring your hair, asshole. Get it together!"

I watched her in the rear-view mirror as she struggled with her luggage. Her calves looked great in those capris. An elderly curbside attendant suddenly materialized. While hunched over, he grabbed the handle on her suitcase -- I flew out of the car. He probably took Viagra this morning! No competition!!

I hastily handed the man a nickel while yanking the luggage out of his grasp. He fell back a little. The lovely lady stood there with her mouth wide open, making a few odd, gaspy noises. Bling makes her sing, apparently.

Finally packed up, I got back in the driver's seat. Checked my mirrors, buckled my seat belt, found a radio station, smoked an electronic cigarette and watched a couple YouTube videos.

What the hell was taking her so long?

I looked out the passenger window. She stood there, perfectly beautiful, pointing at the door lock.

Oops.

When we finally took off, I asked her if she had any stops she wanted to make along the way. The lovely lady shook her head, but she gave me a little smile, too. I know that smile. Some men mistake that look for politeness. It's not. It's an invitation to Wild Kingdom. That's where we were going. A Mini-Cooper-enabled sex safari.

When we pulled into CVS, I asked if she had a preference. “For what?” she sweetly asked.

“Lube,” I said. She did that gaspy noise thing again.

I opened the car door. She grabbed my arm. “I don’t need that! WE DON’T NEED THAT!” she yelled.

I understood. She likes it RAW.

I winked at her and closed the car door. I love this woman.

As we approached her hotel, I noticed something on the side of the road. A stop we should make. A place that she needed to see. So she understood exactly who she was dealing with.

I pulled into the Bank of America parking lot. She looked over at me, confused. I arranged my features into the most serious expression I could manage. She was about to be bowled over.

“I have a checking account at this financial institution,” I said. “Soon, I’ll have savings, too.”

The lovely lady murmured her appreciation. She cast her eyes upward, as if praying.

I touched her shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You can probably get one, too. They let some women in.”

We headed across the street to her hotel. I pulled in front and watched her remove her bags from the trunk. I lowered the passenger window.

“Hey, do you want me to come in now?” I asked.

She quickly shook her head. “I have work stuff,” she said.

“OK, but have you ever done anal in the ape house at the National Zoo?”

She started running toward the lobby, dropping her bags on the sidewalk.

I had scared her with my lack of creativity.

“I’ll call you in 15 minutes!” I yelled.

This was gonna get good…

(MisterCreosote is a very nice man and would never do most of these things. )

 

I'm trying to think of a superlative big enough for these two posts that doesn't make me sound like my 14-year-old daughter. Not working.

Epicly awesome.