My friend Beanie was in Washington DC recently, the site where she met her future husband when she and her fellow flight attendant roommate chanced to share an elevator with him. Beanie claims that he made a pass at her roommate and that the roommate ignored him, so he had to settle for Beanie. That isn’t quite the way he remembers it, but whatever…it worked. Happy lots-of-years anniversary, Beanie and Cecil.
I’m a sucker for these stories. I’ve probably mentioned that during our early dating days, I was Dearly Beloved’s “dull date” –just out for dinner on Thursday nights. We’d talk about any- and everything and had such a comfortable friendship that I’d unabashedly stuff my baked potato with butter and sour cream. He’d take me home early so that he’d have plenty of time to rest up for his heavy weekend dates with a flight attendant. (No, not Beanie!)
He took me regularly to a restaurant called Slug’s Rib. Don’t even try to conjure up an image based on the name. It was actually a romantic restaurant with fabulous prime rib. I learned to love creamed spinach and a blond, blue-eyed handsome man there.
One of my friends told me about someone she knows, a widow who decided to downsize after her husband died and sold the house she’d loved for forty years. Months later the buyer called to say he had received some mail addressed to her husband. She told him she’d stop by and get it, but it was probably nothing important as her husband had been deceased for some time. He mentioned that he had lost his wife. Perhaps the woman might like to come for lunch and see what he’d done to her former home. They’re happily married now and she’s living once again in her old house. Probably redecorating.
Ah yes, those “meant for each other” stories. . . .
How ’bout the guy who found his fourth (or fifth?) wife when the scantily clad vixen jumped out of the cake at his son’s bachelor party. Brings a tear to the eye, doesn’t it?! One day the grandchildren can hear about how Grandma had the most beautiful set of. . . um. . . pasties he’d ever laid his lecherous eyes on.
My friend Birdie says she was swept off her feet in college by the first guy she ever heard use panacea correctly. Remember the old Groucho Marx show where one could, “Say the secret ‘woid’ and you win $100”? Who’d have thought finding a wife that way was an option, too?!
I’ve mentioned the crew that remodeled our house–the contractor (think “The Skipper”) and helpers, Darrell, Darryl, and Squirrel. Contractor may be out-bid or out-built, but he will never be out-talked. My head is now filled–to my dismay– with stories like this one about how he wooed his first wife.
I believe he said they met in upstate New York, although I’m not sure why he would have been there. On their first date a squirrel fell from an overhanging branch and hit the side of his truck, so he stopped, picked up the dead squirrel, and tossed it into the pickup bed.
“You don’t plan to EAT that, do you?” she asked with disgust.
“Well, yeeeaaahhhh,” he answered in his Southern drawl.
Some dates later he invited her to his place for dinner to show off his cooking skills for whupping up a good dinner.
You can guess what he served, can’t you. . . .
Nothing like a good plate of surprise (!) Roadkill Stew to get the fires of romance burning.
(gulp) I’ll stick with creamed spinach, thank you.