Post-Valentine Confession Time

I ate all the chocolate out of my son's valentine box from school.

To rectify my gratuitous use of the words barf and vomit in my recent posts, I shall tell this story:

Ten years ago Michael and I spent our first Valentine's Day together.  I went with friends to a university basketball game where he found me, sat by me and invited me to make sugar cookies at midnight (no, that is not a euphemism for something else, that is really what we did) with him at his house.  

The night before there had been a girl's choice dance at the university. Michael had attended with some freshman hussy who had the audacity to ask him out.  He said he was hoping I would have asked him, and I was hoping he would have said no the hussy and taken me to a movie instead. I'm not a big fan of girl's choice.  My inner liberated woman still has that one hang-up. Apparently he was still playing the field and man, was I ever bugged about it.  

The Phone Calls-An Anniversary Post

Ten years ago I answered my phone. It was my friend Nikki.
"Well?" she asked. "Well, what?" I replied.
"I'll call back in ten minutes!"

My phone rang again. It was Michael. He asked me to the Christmas dance at the university. I was excited, but it all seemed a little suspicious.

Nikki called back. "Well?" She asked again.

"Nikki! What did you tell him? I am so embarrassed. You made him ask me out."

"No I didn't! He said he would have anyway!"

Liar. Thank you, Liar.

10 Years Ago- An Anniversary Post

10 years ago I was sitting in church with my younger sister and my mom (it was family day at the university ward). Michael was the speaker. All the way through his talk Brianna and I poked each other and giggled and whispered about how Michael really wanted to be my boyfriend . . . he just didn't know it yet.
We weren't being very reverent.

Anniversary Post, First in a Series: The Homecoming Game

10 years ago, Michael came home from his mission in Jamaica. His parents picked him up from the airport and drove him directly to our old high school so they could watch his younger brother Anthony play in the homecoming football game. (Great game by the way, as I recall Anthony had at least two touchdowns.)
I was sitting a few rows behind Michael with some (just) friends, a group of guys, three of whom were a set of triplets Michael's age. When Michael first walked up the bleachers (a few minutes after kick off) with suit, tags and family, all of us broke into a fit of giggles. He looked extremely uncomfortable. I'm pretty sure I have never seen anyone look so awkward at a football game in my life. He seemed to be trying exceptionally hard to watch the game without noticing the cheerleaders. He appeared to be glued to his father's side.
I didn't know him well enough to start a conversation, but all my guy friends were excited to say hello, so we hung around after the game to chat. I think the main goal of my friends was actually a lighthearted attempt to see how much they could embarrass this missionary so recently reintroduced into real life.
I know it sounds silly for a group of college kids to be hanging around at a high school football game, but I am glad that we went. Little did I know that an evening where a bunch of bored friends deciding on a whim to attend a homecoming football game would turn into a treasured memory.
He was cute, but I didn't fall in love at first sight. Of course, I'd probably only seen him four thousand times before this since we grew up three blocks away from each other (his brother and I went to kindergarten together). I can't say I heard Some Enchanted Evening playing in my head either, but listening to a throng of hyperactive high-schoolers chanting "Defense attack! Fight back!" is pretty much the same thing anyway.

Maw-wige. Maw-wige is What Bwings us To-gevah Today

Today is our ninth wedding anniversary. I haven't seen my husband all day. I might not see him tomorrow. I am so over residency.
Wah.
Now excuse me. I need to go scavenge through my kitchen looking for some therapeutic chocolate.



Okay, I'm back. All I could find was Captain Crunch with Crunchberries (Michael bought it, I swear). I ate it anyway.

Now, the ninth anniversary thing. I'd include adorable wedding photos of our young selves (with full heads of hair and appropriately proportioned bodies) getting married, but Michael is the only person in the house currently possessing the technological genius required to work this newfangled scanner he just got. I guess we'll have to wait until tomorrow. Or the next day. Or maybe later than that. You never know.
Since this is the advent of our tenth year together, I'll give you advanced warning, some future posts could possibly get slightly mushy. Okay, maybe not mushy. I typically don't do mushy. Sentimental might be a better word. We still really really like each other, okay?

There will probably be posts notifying you of the tenth anniversary of our first date, the great snow-shoeing incident; when my missionary came home and wouldn't believe me when I promised promised promised that I was really already dating the guy I was going to marry; the Valentine's date THAT HE WENT ON WITH ANOTHER GIRL (to be fair, it was girl's choice . . . she asked . . . but he didn't say no!); the first time I ever saw the infamous Jazz Jacket; and when he proposed up on Castle Rock. You know, that type of thing.

And every year, I keep thinking that I should e-mail, call, or write my old friend Nikki and thank her for shoving us together. Nikki? Are you out there in internet-dom? If you are, thanks again. Why don't we keep in better touch? Could it be this habit I have of moving across the country every few years? Sorry.