Today is the Superbowl (if you’ve been living under a rock or something), and although I don’t give a flying fuck about the game itself, but it’s annual celebration marks a sort-of anniversary of sorts.
After you’ve been together long enough, there are all sorts of stupid dates to remember (birthdays, wedding dates, children’s birthdays, and the infamous Day We Decided To Buy A New Fridge), and I don’t usually recall most of them until they’ve passed.
But because Superbowl reminders have been vomited every which way, I can’t help but think back to the day that The Daver sweetly invited me to a party thrown by his buddies, auspiciously for the Superbowl, but really more about the foodstuff.
It was when we’d first started dating, and everything was all new and weird and exciting and we didn’t know each other’s bathroom habits or middle names or weird hangups. I was strangely flattered by the request, as we’d just spent our first weekend together (and I had been stuck in Boyville without a hairbrush to tame my mangled mess of hair) and I had figured that my unbrushed teeth would have frightened him away, but no, not The Daver.
The first part of his invitation was sweet,
“Would you like to come to my friend’s Superbowl party? Here, I’ll print you some directions.”
And had he left well enough alone, I might have considered attending.
But as men are wont to do, he continued with,
“Man, if you come, my friend Rob is going to laugh. Every time he sees me I am with a new woman.”
Gee, sweetheart, thanks.
Thanks, but no thanks.
It was the first in a long relationship riddled with Foot In Mouth-Itits (a tragic disease so far without a cure), and miraculously, I still married him.
(And possibly even stranger, after learning of my obsession with all things pink and heart-shaped (BUT NOT DIAMONDS. NEVER DIAMONDS) and the fact that I use an insane amount of toilet paper, he still married me.)
So dish, what’s your favorite open-mouth-insert-foot story?