Someone asked me a couple of weeks ago on FormSpring how I met The Mister. Here is part 3.  You can read part 1 here and part 2 here.

…………………………

My friend, Steve, didn’t approve.

“Jules, you don’t even know this guy.  You’re going to get in a car with a guy you don’t know and drive to LA?  This doesn’t sound like you.  The drive alone will take you an hour and what happens if you don’t like him or you get a bad feeling?  Why don’t you do something local, like a movie or grab some coffee?”

“I don’t like coffee.”

……………………….

The Mister didn’t fare much better with his roommate.

“Dude.  You’re taking a girl from the bar to a museum?  Why? You’re going to be stuck with her for an hour before you even get there.  Do something safer, like coffee.”

“She doesn’t like coffee.”

………………………..

I picked The Mister up for our first date.  His apartment was on the way to LACMA and even though I was acting completely out of character by going on a date with someone I didn’t really know, I’d seen enough episodes of Law & Order to know the handsome guys can have a touch of The Crazy.

…………………………

I knocked on the door; he called me in. I poked in my head and smiled like someone who goes out on first dates all the time.  The Mister stood up from the sofa where he was sitting and smiled, his right hand loosely holding the strap of a backpack sitting next to him.

His roommate, Chad, was aloof.  He still thought the museum idea was stupid.

I realized I was still wearing my sunglasses and pushed them up quickly, not wanting to appear rude.  They got tangled in my hair and I yanked at them too hard from the nerves.  They fell off my forehead and landed lopsided on my nose, giving me the appearance of a nerd freshly shaken by a bully.

The Mister smiled wider.

…………………………

On the car ride to LACMA he was direct and upfront, like a candidate for a government position who believes in full disclosure.

“You should know I have two tattoos.”

“Okay.”

“One on my calf and another on my back.  Is that going to be a problem?”

“I don’t think so.  I always wanted a tattoo, but I don’t know.  They’re permanent, you know?”

“Yeah.  Sometimes I like mine, sometimes I don’t.”

…………………………

I didn’t know what I was doing, so I went for coy and casual.

“I’m not looking for a serious boyfriend.”

“You’re not?”

“No, I don’t need to get married anytime soon.”

“Well, I would like to get married.”

“You would?”

“Eventually, sure.  My brother just got married.  He seems happy.  Being happy with someone doesn’t seem so bad.”

…………………………

When we got to the museum we continued to talk.  I told him everything I remembered from the biographies of Freida Kahlo and Vincent Van Gogh I had read that year.  He told me everything he knew about ancient Egypt and the antiquities, a subject that up until that very moment used to bore me to tears.

We were there for hours and then it was dark.  On the way home, we stopped at Acapulco for dinner.  I ordered something grilled, probably fajitas.  He ordered a combo plate with a little of everything.  He offered me one of his enchiladas, cheese oozing everywhere.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.  I’m lactose intolerant.”  Always with the TMI.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.  Did I just lose points?”

………………………….

We considered going to a movie after dinner, but figured 8 hours was long enough for a first date.

I figured he would call me two days later.  He did, at 8:00am.  He went with me to buy shoes but I couldn’t find anything because I was too nervous to concentrate on footwear.  At the end of our second date he invited me to visit him at the bar the next day during his shift.  I showed up as planned and he offered to make me a smoothie of my choice.  Restaurant smoothies are usually full of milk, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.  I told him to make me whatever everyone usually gets, figuring I would leave shortly before the milk ate away at my bowels.

I watched him talk easily to his customers and toss a few bottles in the air, showing off just a little.  He walked back to me, smoothie in hand.

“I made you a Gold Medalist, but I left out the cream.  You’re lactose intolerant so no dairy, right?”

Right.  I’m lactose intolerant.

And that is how I met The Mister.

Someone asked me a couple of weeks ago on FormSpring how I met The Mister. Here is part 2 of three or so posts.  I could probably condense it all into one post and make it a couple of paragraphs, but I’m long winded.

………………………………….

About a week before I went to T.G.I. Fridays with Kara, my friend, Steve, and I were discussing our requirements in a boyfriend/girlfriend. Having ended a tortuous 4-year relationship two years prior, I was ready to return to the dating scene from my self-imposed sabbatical. I was smarter and more confident in what I wanted. In fact, I had it narrowed down to two requirements:

1. He had to like art and museums.
2. He had to remember I was lactose intolerant.

And no, the prior boyfriend could never seem to remember I was lactose intolerant during roughly 1,460 days of our relationship.

Steve was concerned my list of requirements couldn’t weed out the riffraff, but there was a method to my madness. I felt a museum lover would be reasonably intelligent; less likely to spend Monday nights smashing beer cans against his forehead, if you will. More to the point, we would have something in common and share similar interests and hobbies. Someone who remembered I was lactose intolerant would be caring, attentive, and not self-involved. I was looking for the opposite of everyone I had ever dated.

I thought it was genius; Steve remained unconvinced. One week later, I walked into T.G.I. Fridays with Kara and unwittingly put my requirements to the test.

Kara and I were sitting at the table in the bar area debating what to eat while The Mister served drinks to the regulars sitting at the bar. I knew I had to stick with diet coke or water since I had class in less than an hour.

“So, ladies,” the Mister asked from his post behind the bar, “what can I get for you?”

I looked at him looking at me, opened my mouth and said, “I’ll take a shot of tequila, please.”

Kara grinned into her menu. A regular spun around in his seat, took one look at me, and chuckled.

“Well, alright,” and the Mister also chuckled. “What kind can I get you?”

I didn’t really care, so I asked for Cuervo 1800, which was on special.

“You don’t want that.” The Mister said firmly.
“Really. Is that a fact.” He had caught my eye, but not my tongue. “And why are you so sure?”

“Because it’s not good Tequila, so you’re just paying for a heavily marketed label. If you want to come over here, I can explain to you the different types of Tequila and how it’s produced.”

And that is when I left my perch in the safety zone and walked over to the bar, trying to ignore the smiles and elbowing going on by the regulars. The Mister placed several different bottles of Tequila on the bar and explained at length the production process. He explained the difference between silver and gold; añejo and reposado; American brands, Mexican brands; and the best climate for the agave plant. All of a sudden, the cocky, backwards-cap-wearing bartender had turned into a nerdy scientist and I, who spent hours as a child reading the encyclopedia for fun, was immediately and hopelessly smitten.  It was geek love.

I had one shot of tequila and maybe another drink. I never did make it to class. But, I did call Steve from the parking lot to tell him I met the man I was going to marry.

I spent the next couple of weeks going to T.G.I. Fridays with various friends, all of them curious to catch a glimpse at the first guy to ever make me gush. I made sure we sat in the dining room, far away the bar. We never saw him, until one night when I was there with my friend, Tiffany. I was walking back from the bathroom to my table, minding my own business when some rude punk all but screamed in my ear, “MOVE IT, OR LOSE IT!”

I turned around to watch The Mister rush past me with two arms full of hot plates.

I returned to the table and told Tiffany I saw him, but that it wasn’t going to work out. “I couldn’t possibly marry a guy with thighs thinner than mine.” Tiffany agreed it was a deal breaker and that I had made the right decision.

A month or two later, Kara wanted to go to Fridays. Again.  I told her no way. She begged and pleaded and promised we would not go anywhere near the bar. I told her since I was wearing old jeans and a slouchy sweater plus didn’t have time to do my hair or put on makeup that I would only go if she went in first and made sure the Mister was not working in the bar, which sat in plain view of the front door. Not that I was interested, but still.

To her credit, she lived up to her part of the bargain. She scoured the bar for any signs of him and, finding the coast clear, waved me in.  Almost immediately we were seated.  I all but dove into my seat in the booth and tucked myself into the corner, slouching to prevent anyone from the bar seeing a hair on my head.

The hostess handed us our menus, smiled sweetly and said, “Your server, The Mister, will be with you in just a minute.” No.  No, no, no. NO and NO and HELL NO.  I told Kara she was on her own, grabbed my purse to leave and started sliding out of my seat. When I looked up, there was The Mister. I could tell he recognized us immediately. I wanted to die.  DIE.  Jeans, no makeup, slouchy-90s-sweater-DIE.

I smiled and said hi, like there was no one on Earth I wanted to see more than a cocky server with skinny thighs.

I couldn’t leave, so we ordered dinner and drinks. He was friendly and chatted with both us in between serving tables. Nerves kept me from eating anything more than the ice in my very stiff drinks. I hadn’t planned on ordering drinks, so I had to go use the ATM and get more cash. When I returned, the Mister was kneeling next to Kara talking, and it occurred to me he liked her and not me. He left immediately upon my arrival, leaving Kara looking guilty.

“I think that guy wants to…” Kara never got to finish her sentence because the Mister was back, and this time he sat next to me.

We had the world’s most stilted conversation. We might have said, “Hey,” twenty two million times.  Then he looked at me and said, “Well, I like you. I was wondering if you would like to meet up someplace and have coffee.”

To which I responded, “I don’t drink coffee.”

Because that’s exactly what you say when someone you like and kind-of-sort-of stalked (before you saw his thighs) asks you out on a date.

The Mister looked a little surprised, but didn’t miss a beat.

“Okay,” He said, smiling. “Do you like art? Would you like to go to the LA County Museum of Art with me?”

Why, yes. Yes I would.

Someone asked me a couple of weeks ago on FormSpring how I met The Mister. That reminded me that I had started the story, but never finished it.  Here is Part 1, written a very long time ago.  I’ll finish up with Part 2 and 3 this week.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed reminiscing about that day over 13 years ago.  Funny enough, yesterday was the 13th anniversary of our first date.

………………………………….

I grew up in a strict, conservative Catholic home, the Argentine-born daughter of two immigrants. I was not allowed to speak with boys, date, or wear makeup. No daring outfits, dangling earrings, or dark nail polish. I begged, at the age of 13, to read Seventeen Magazine. I think my mom might have allowed it, but my dad flatly refused to even entertain the thought, even after I explained to him that 17 year old girls didn’t actually read Seventeen. After college, it was assumed I would return home. And I did. I was twenty-one years old.

I didn’t even think of getting my own apartment until I was around 24 years old. By that point, I was almost done with my Masters and my dad was finding it increasingly difficult to end arguments with, “Because I said so.” I found a very nice apartment in a lovely woodland(ish) setting. I had money saved up (living at home doesn’t cost much) and I took great pleasure furnishing my new place. As I placed furniture and hung poster art, I couldn’t help but fantasize of all the parties I would be hosting, late nights laughing with friends, and grilled dinners on the balcony.

Here’s the rub. Sheltered Catholic girls don’t have many friends, and the friends they do have lead equally dull lives. My friends from college all lived out of state and the ones still in town were preparing for graduate school or already working. Things were not going as planned. I was now poor, bored, and lonely. I started going home to have dinner and staying until it was time to go back to my apartment to sleep. Suddenly my parents and brothers seemed infinitely more interesting.

I’m a night owl, so I would often pull into the apartment parking lot between 10:30 and 11:00pm. I am also exceedingly cautious. Morning, noon, or night–whether I was in or out of the apartment I kept everything dead-bolted. On my first night there I installed a security light. So, I was on my toes when I stepped out of my car just before 11:00pm. I did everything right. I scanned the area. I held my keys in my hand, and even had one extended and ready to stab any unsavory genetalia that dared cross my path.

I bounded up the stairs, looked around and, seeing no one, unlocked the door and quickly went inside. I immediately locked all the locks, including the deadbolt. I put on my pajamas, washed my face, and was scrutinizing my eyebrows in a magnifying mirror when I first heard the knock on my door. I had been inside my apartment for less than 10 minutes.

It was a happy knock, if knock can be happy. The kind of knock you rap on a friend’s door when they are expecting you.

Knock! Knock!

Who’s there? I said without saying. I gently put down my tweezers and cocked my head, waiting for a familiar voice to call my name.

Knock! Knock!

Bill? Steve? Not Tiffany, we’re fighting. Kara is already in bed. A little something inside me started to tingle. I quietly stood up and walked towards the door. I didn’t make a sound as I stood before it, not knowing I was projecting my fractured image through the peephole to whoever was standing outside.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

A little more insistent. I softly pressed my fingertips against the door and looked through the peephole.

White male, or light-skinned hispanic. Early 20s. Average height, 5′8-5′10. Overweight and doughy, about 220 pounds. Dark hair slicked back, round glasses. Some acne. He must have sensed my presence or noticed movement in the peephole because he suddenly broke out in a huge smile and chuckled, like I should be happy to see a miniature version of him staring back at me. I did not say a word. I did not know him.

I reached down to release the deadbolt, and then changed my mind. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and pulled my chef’s knife out of the block and walked towards the bedroom. I picked up the phone and debated calling the police.

And then he tried to kick down my door.

For a split second, I stared at the door in disbelief, wondering if perhaps I didn’t imagine the crash. But then it came again, and I knew by the way the window in front of me shook that he was rushing the door and trying to break the deadbolt. I called 911 and explained in bursts what was happening. I had to yell over my potential intruder (who was now screaming, cursing, and kicking the door) for the operator to hear me.

The operator was very nice. He took down all my information and told me someone would be there shortly. And then he said he had to go.

Please don’t hang up. I’m scared. I could barely speak the words. My mouth was taking in short gasps of air like a fish flopping on a shoreline.

I’m sorry. I have to answer more calls. It occurred to me the operator didn’t want to stay and hear what would happen when my intruder made his way past my locks.

We hung up, and I called every person I knew and then my dad. Only my dad was home, and by the time I reached him the pounding at the door stopped. In the deafening quiet he almost didn’t believe me when I told him someone tried to break into my apartment and the police were on their way. He showed up as I just as I finished giving the officer my statement. He thanked the officer and as I walked down the steps towards my dad, the officer called down from my stoop.

Your daughter is very lucky. There’s someone going around. She would have been the 3rd.

We didn’t ask ‘the 3rd what?’ because we didn’t want to know. My dad never said a word on the way home, and I never went back to the apartment.  A family friend cleared it out and put everything in storage. I canceled my lease. I resumed my boring, sheltered life, only this time with great pleasure.

Two weeks later, Kara called me and invited me to eat dinner at our favorite restaurant, T.G.I. Fridays in celebration of my regained financial freedon. Now that I was back at home I had plenty of money for such luxuries, and 30 minutes later we were in the lobby of the restaurant waiting for a table. I had a night class for my masters, but if we ate fast, I could make it in time.

“I know you two ladies aren’t waiting for a table.” A voice, confident and teasing.

Kara and I looked over to find a bartender leaning over the bar and looking in our direction. We both turned around to make sure he was talking to us.

“Yes, I’m talking to you.  You’re not really going to wait for a table when you can have dinner right now with me, are you?” Ugh. I thought he was going to speed the hostess along and instead he is asking us to eat in a bar? Gag.

Kara and I looked at each other. I don’t really drink. I don’t go clubbing or dancing or partying. I certainly don’t eat dinner in bars with people I don’t know.  My eyes said it all: I don’t think so.

Kara looked back at the bartender. “Sure, why not? That sounds like a great idea!” (Kara always thinks this sort of thing is a great idea.)

We walked into the bar, Kara with a more lively step. I smiled a smile that wasn’t really a smile at the obvious regulars; they chuckled into their bourbon. I made a point to sit at a table in the bar, but not at the actual bar. I wasn’t going to be there long, which would serve that bossy bartender right.

The bartender smiled at my passive-aggressive defiance and walked around the bar to our table. He greeted Kara first and then turned to look at me.

“Hello there.”

I took in his hair, dark as pitch, hiding underneath a gray Kangol hat worn backwards. Eyes the color of sea glass stared right through me, and for the first time in my life I blinked first.

Hello there yourself, Mister.

Sometimes I feel I could be a better mom.  A better mom, wife, friend, daughter–you name it.  And then I will walk into the toyroom and hear Nicholas talking to his dinosaurs while he positions them just so.  “Is that your mommy, T-Rex?  Is that your mommy, Spinosaurus? Do dinosaurs like their mommy?  Yes?  Okay.”

And then I think that, sometimes, maybe I am doing something right, too.

You don’t really take pictures when you have a blog.  You certainly don’t take snapshots.  You compose images and try to capture “happiness,” “fleeting moments of solitude,” and “the magnitude of the mundane.”  If you are really good, you also rock the hell out of a third birthday party for under $15 using nothing more than a ball of eco-friendly hemp yarn and vintage buttons you culled from a year of thrifting. I’m not that good, which I why I didn’t feel guilty about canceling Nicholas’s birthday party on Friday for more than a few moments. Okay, a day and a half.

The previous Saturday, after all the Baptism festivities were over, Nicholas made it known he had acquired my stomach bug.  That night and the subsequent morning was a messy business that left The Mister and I tired and grumpy.  But, we had hopes he would be party-ready by mid-week.  Nicholas was fine on Sunday, weak on Monday, and on Tuesday baptized the car on the way home from picking up Mikey from school.  I worked my way through the invite list after I cleaned him up and put him to bed.

I could have pushed it.  I could have had the party on Friday with no one the wiser.  But, in reality, I was relieved to have an opportunity to cancel a party that became more about the perfect post and less about the boy.

It started innocently enough. My aunt and cousin would be here for Nicholas’s birthday. For the first time in my entire life, I would have extended family here on a birthday–any birthday! That deserved a party. Just a few people. Nothing fancy.

Then Nicholas decided, with Mikey’s help, that he wanted a dinosaur party. I’m all about the dinosaur, so I decided this party would be like the glitter dinos, only better. Those were done on a whim with my boys in mind. This party would be a perfectly executed dinotopia.

I love being creative as much as the next person. I like to come up with new ideas and create fun memories for my children. (All the better if they fit within the confines of my blog, yes?) But sometime after Mikey’s cold and my stomach flu I began to realize that I would never have time to fashion my mesozoic paper garland made from pictures of Nicholas’s first three years. And I was kidding myself if I thought I could make dinosaur sugar cookies or vegan chocolate cakes while a cauldron of sauce bubbled away on my stove for creamy polenta. Also, I didn’t want to do any of it, either.

I love being creative as much as the next person, yes. But, I like to be creative on my own terms. And, when I feel like I am being creative to impress others rather than my children, well, that’s when I take a simple stomach flu and make it sound like the bubonic plague. That’s when I start calling people and tell them that too bad, so sad, the party has been canceled. There will be no garlands or hemp yarn or vintage buttons snipped from coats that shall later be fashioned into quilts for snowy days.  Priorities need to be reevaluated.

Instead, there will be home-cooked food and cakes that taste better than they photograph. Snapshots, sometimes with flash, that leave odd blue spots on foreheads. Presents bought at ordinary stores, wrapped in ordinary paper, topped with ordinary bows. There will be in attendance family, just family, and they will watch a three year old boy smile a smile that cracks their hearts in two because he finally gets birthdays and he gets they are singing for him. And it will all be perfect without being perfect.

Because it was.

It’s 9:36am and I am waiting for Nicholas to wake up.  He was up most of the night coughing, shivering with a mild fever.  I rocked him for about thirty minutes in the five o’clock hour this morning.  We both enjoyed the comfort only early morning snuggling can bring.  I’m a bit torn up about him being sick, actually.  His baptism is on Saturday (at long last!) and while I know he will be fine by then, I can’t help but wonder why it is my boys always seem to catch every cough and cold they come across.

They eat a variety of fruits and vegetables, many of them organic.  I give them water to drink, or fresh juice on occasion.  Never any artificial fruit juices and nothing with added sugar, real or not.  The snacks they eat are either made here at home or made with all natural ingredients you can pronounce.  Yesterday I spent five hours making homemade beef stock for the homemade minestrone soup I plan to make tonight for dinner.  Really, I don’t think they can eat more healthy.

We aren’t zealots.  They get fast food several times a month.  Balance is good.

So why are they always sick?  Maybe they aren’t, but it sure does feel that way.  I wonder how they would fare if I let them eat junk food full of colors, preservatives, and chemical ingredients.

9:44 and he is still sleeping.  Not even a peep.

In the meantime, would you like to see what we did this weekend?  We painted the kitchen Oatmeal by Ralph Lauren.  It was a bit dicey finding the paint.  With Ralph Lauren officially discontinued at The Home Depot, I had to travel to the ends of the earth (Moreno Valley) to find just one can.  Still, I’m glad I did it.  The color turned out pretty perfect.  Maybe a touch darker than I had planned, but still quite soothing and lovely.

I love it so much; I want to paint the whole house in this color, including the living room.

9:50am and I hear him coughing in his sleep. Le sigh.

I don’t know if I have ever mentioned my love for oil paintings. I do. Love them, I mean. Especially en masse on a wall. As a child, I always associated oil paintings with long, far reaching ancestral lines. This is my great, great, great grandmother Adelaide. This fox hunting scene belonged to my husband’s great aunt Mildred. This is one of my distant cousins, perhaps from my father’s side. Do you see the resemblance in the eyes? Anyway, it all sounds terribly romantic to someone whose extended family lives tens of thousands of miles away.

{From the book Restoring a House in the City by Ingrid Abramovitch}

On Friday I decided it might be fun to collect some oil paintings. Nothing expensive, and nothing new. It’s the same day I started fiddling with the curtains in the living room and decided to keep the wall color as is, making the room a tone on tone creamy-caramel delight. On Saturday I walked past a rummage sale and saw this oil painting sitting next to a poster of mallard ducks in flight. There was a mallard duck lamp to match, too. I left behind the foul but brought home the $2 oil painting, which is admittedly filthy. I need to google how to clean it properly.  Still, I feel like God is giving me a big thumbs up on Plan G.

I don’t plan to keep it on the mantel. Against our more neutral walls, the painting looks far less orange. We’ll see. Things are always changing around here thanks to my fickle beast of a personality.

What’s this? 10:07am and I think I might hear a certain sick little boy rousing from sleep. True love is calling, so off I go. Have a nice day, everyone.

As promised, on Sunday we spent the day boring Mikey at Universal Studios.  Well, really, it wasn’t about him.  My parents were entertaining my aunt and cousin who are visiting from Argentina and invited us to tag along.  The fact Mikey was bored and complied with one of the few New Year’s resolutions we haven’t already chucked in the trash like old chicken was pure happenstance.  And, maybe he wasn’t bored so much as he was terrified to the core.

Did I mention Mikey is at equal turns obsessed and and horrified by zombies and vampires? He talks about them nonstop, especially at bedtime, asking about how they came to be, what is their purpose, how strong they are, and how someone, say, a five year old boy, could destroy them if said boy were to find one in his bedroom at night. Hypothetically.  I told him that when dealing with the undead, your best bets are daylight and God.  I went to check on him later and found him asleep with his head completely buried under the covers, clutching his baby blue cross and wearing a crucifix my mom bought for me in Cancun.

Knowing this, you can imagine the reception Beetle Juice, a zombie, received.  It took over four hours for the color to return to Mikey’s lips, which is when we found the life-size great white shark.

The Jurassic Park ride was closed.  The Jurassic Park themed gift store was wide open.

Things settled down a bit once we got on the guided tour of the park. The bus tour lasted about 45 minutes and, really, was enlightening. Lots of fun special effects and interesting trivia.

Were it not for the tour, I would have never known that Gabriella’s house on Desperate Housewives is Conchita Banana yellow. The rest of the houses on set are sedate, feminine numbers painted buttercup, lilac, and respectable greige. The only way ABC could have better communicated the message that a “Latina Stereotype Lives Here” would be if they left a trail of empty tamale husks leading to the door.

This is a real plane, destroyed to bits.  It was actually a bit unnerving, especially with the smoke and smell of gasoline.  Tom Cruise fans might recognize this set from War of the Worlds.

Cars bursting into flames, earthquakes, Jaws, spitting beetles from Egypt, The set from How the Grinch Stole Christmas–it was little boy heaven concocted by big boys with incredible imaginations and bank accounts to match.  It was fun.

Then we did the shows. We watched Orangutans dance and then pet the chickens.

Almost lost Nicholas to a rogue band of furries.

Saw a loud and somewhat alarming Terminator show (computers will one day come to life and kill us, just so you know) that electrified Mikey and scared Nicholas so badly, all he could do was point and whimper. Also, 25,000 blogger points go to me for posting a picture that accentuates my back fat, flies in the face of double chin elimination, and makes me look like I have kielbasa arms.

Then the boys went for a ride, Mikey worked on his form, and The Mister met Flat Damon, which he took very seriously.  All in all, an exceptionally boring day.

The end.