So today I thought I’d tell you a little personal story. The story of how my hubby and I met. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Barforama. Well, hopefully you’ll also think it’s funny so you’ll be barfing out one end and peeing out the other. Either way, just to be safe, you better read this shit in the bathroom.
It was 1912 and I was boarding a big ocean liner with my asshole parents to cross the Atlantic Ocean. Little did I know there was a stowaway. Oh wait, wrong story. That’s what happens when you drink before noon. But seriously, it was 2005, when the only three dating websites were pretty much Match, JDate and eHarmony. They didn’t have that cool cupid site yet or that Christian Mingle shit either, which I think is F’ing hysterical.
You always hear religious people say shit like, it’s all in God’s plan, but then they go on Christian Mingle to fork over $30 a month and hijack fate to find their own true love. Yeah, what the F happened to God’s plan? It wasn’t good enough? Or is Christian Mingle all a part God’s plan? And if so can I just call him G because he needs a hipper, more modern name than God? But I digress. I’m so fucking good at digressing, it kills me. So anyways, naturally I picked the online dating website with the best success rate (cough cough, the highest average salary).
Then I wrote the best fucking online profile you’ve ever read, edited out all the curse words, and posted it next to some pictures that were slightly out of focus, all shot from above so my body looked tiny, and photo-shopped the hell out of them (adios shiny forehead and fat upper arm that I forgot to hold away from my body in that picture).
Anyways, my profile was carefully crafted to make me look sane and normal and better looking than I actually am, but not so good-looking that guys would be totally disappointed if our date goes well and we’re still at the bar when the lights go on. And I always picked a bar because:
A. As far as I’m concerned, alcohol is a necessity when you have to sit down and have a conversation with someone who very well might be a total douchbag.
B. Bars are dark enough to conceal any stray mustache hairs I might have missed or
zits pimples blemishes I caked the concealer on over and over and over again until it finally stopped bleeding.
C. I can down a drink in less than three minutes if I feel the need to end this date quickly.
Anyways, once my profile was up and running, I went on about one date a week. Just enough to make me want to kill myself, but not quite enough to make me actually go through with it.
I don’t know how many months and dates later (translation: I was in therapy to cleanse my memory of most of the fuckwads I met), I received an email from this guy Aladdin (fake name, duh) who lived thousands of miles away. Anyways, the email I received said:
My best friend lives near you. I think you two would get along. Would you be interested in meeting him?
Anyways, when I got that email that morning I don’t know whether I was feeling very optimistic or very desperate (oh, who the F am I kidding, DESPERATE), so I wrote back:
Maybe. Tell me a bit about him, and not to sound shallow but a picture would help.
I know what you’re thinking. That I’m an asshole for caring about looks. Well, A. I’m not an asshole. I’m normal. And B. A picture tells a lot. Like is he 90? Does he have a porno mustache? (Holy fuck, spell check accepted porno!) Or does he wear a pirate patch? Not necessarily something I’d be against. Just something I’d like to know before I go out with someone. Like one of my friends once was set up on a blind date with a guy who had no arms. My friend is like the nicest person in the whole wide world and definitely would have gone out with him arms or no arms, but it would have been good information to have beforehand.
So Aladdin sent me this totally amazing, awesome picture of my husband when he had more hair and was posing with someone else’s dog. Aladdin didn’t tell me much about him, but based on this guy’s looks and the fact that he had a dog (because I didn’t know it was someone else’s), I said yes I’d like to meet him. Why in God’s name I just assumed someone with a dog would be nice is beyond me. I know lots of a-holes who have dogs.
Anyways, yada yada yada, I’m not gonna bore the crap out of you with all the email correspondence and dates and shit, but it was good. Like really good. Like he was totally worth waiting 33 years for. Thirty-three lonnnnng F’ing years.
So I’m trying to come up with a nice way to wrap up this post. I don’t know, some moral or something. Here are a bunch. You decide which one you would like to take from this story:
Good things happen to desperate people.
Online dating works if the picture is “tweaked” but not a total sham.
Alcohol turns awkward situations into awesome situations.
Sometimes you have to go through a lot of douchebags and fuckwads to meet someone better.
Trust random people who suggest you go out with their random friends you know nothing about.
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