I was sick and in bed most of the day. I woke up and thought OMG American Idol is coming on soon…. and my next thought was OMG I haven’t posted anything on my blog yet!! I’m doing NaBloPoMo, which is short for National Blog Posting Month where you are supposed to post every day during the month. So I started writing at the same time I was watching Idol. As soon as it was over and I sent my post I kept thinking….. why do I feel like I’m forgetting something???? Then it came to me! Oh yeah! I have a guest post for you guys for Leap Blog Day!
When Donna asked me to guest post for My Garden Blue, I was so honored! A talented writer had sought me out to share my alcohol-infused voice of irreverence and ineptitude. Not one to shirk my responsibilities, I carefully reviewed Donna’s blog in order to fully appreciate her niche. That’s when I got really nervous.
Donna is kinda crafty.
And she reads more than just People Magazine.
Oh crap. I am the kind of person who outsources her kids’ projects to family because I’m bad with glue. My husband and I show our devotion to each other not with romantic love notes, but rather by getting up from the couch during Dexter to microwave some popcorn. Worst of all, the only book I have picked up in recent memory is my Weight Watchers Guide to Eating.
I am a blog embarrassment.
Still, I trudged on. I had made the commitment. I was a woman of my word. So I asked Donna if there were topics she preferred. She kindly suggested a story on how I met my husband. My palms got a little sweaty and I wondered if I should fabricate a nobler version of reality. In deference to editorial integrity and pitiful first-meets everywhere, I opted for truth.
I met my husband at the Old St. Pat’s Block Party in Chicago (as seen on TV’s Oprah). My girlfriend and I were three sheets to the wind when another over-served attendee approached. He smiled at us, nodded his head, and asked bravely: “Hey ladies. Want a bratwurst?”
That’s right. My future husband, father of my three children, charmed me with an offer of sausage.
Since that fateful day, I have suggested to Joe that we twist the tale a teensy bit and tell our kids we met at church (which isn’t exactly a lie…the church was right there). He remains quite comfortable with how our first introduction went down. No creative license necessary. End of story.
I’m not sure what this tale reveals about me or our relationship. Despite our inauspicious start, we are pretty happy with how things played out. We get along well. We like to golf and watch Pawn Stars. He cooks, I clean. He kills spiders, I handle the parent-teacher conferences. He saves the city from disaster as a Chicago fireman, I save my children from killing each other.
A match made not in heaven, but rather at the western gate of the Chicago Loop.
(If you are interested in reading more from Marianne, please visit at either webandofmothers.blogspot.com or her Chicago Parent Magazine blog, Failing with Gusto (link to http://www.chicagoparent.com/community/failing-with-gusto).