Saturday, March 14, 2009

beware the ides!

I wanted to use the photo we took last Ides of me holding a butcher knife behind him, slasher style, but my mom sent it in .xls form. Since I don't think you guys want to see a spreadsheet, I instead offer this image of us snoogling in front of a double decker bus in Grand Cayman. I'm pregnant here. Not fat. So shut up.

***

Tomorrow is the Ides of March. Most of the world thinks of the Ides only as the day that Caesar became salad, but for Dr. Crog and me, it's much more important than some minor blip in Roman history.

March 15, 1997 was our first date.

Clad in a dashing tux and bearing a dozen roses, Dr. Crog arrived at my classy apartment that evening in his shiny black Porsche, and we enjoyed a romantic night of dinner, opera and dancing. "I love you as I love the night's high vault," he quoted Baudelaire by starlight in an enchanted fairy garden. And then we rode off into the dawn on snowy, white horses and a whirlwind courtship.

Tee hee. Really very tee hee.


Although here is a 24-year-old Dr. Crog riding a snowy white steed named Gusty.
And also, seriously, how cute are they together?

See, back then, we both lived in the same dorm. I had a passive-aggressive relationship with my horrible, shut-in of a roommate, and Dr. Crog had a black light extravaganza of a one-bedroom closet. I was a vegetarian bitch, and he was a malnourished malcontent. I didn't have enough quarters to do laundry that day, so I wore my last pair of relatively clean jeans, which were covered with paint from knees to crotch. They screamed "insane clown", not "cute first date". He had long hair past his shoulders, always wore Converse Chucks, and was probably wearing a t-shirt with a panda on it, as if daring someone to make fun of him. We were both dreadfully broke.

After several philosophical conversations on the quad and one random, late-night delivery of a hand-drawn poster featuring a demented capybara, our first date was riddled with bottled energy, tongue-in-cheek humor, and witty repartee. We saw Scream in the t
heater and laughed through the whole thing, making jokes while enjoying the little ripple of fright. And making fun of David Arquette.

Later that night, talking on the floor of my dorm room, I was rendered speechless by a stern and purposeful look on his face. Reaching determinedly past my kiss-seeking lips, he plunged his fist into my long, loose hair and destroyed the super-secret-biological-weapon-bug that had crawled out of the closet, because they bred those at our college to perform cruel psychological experiments on unususpecting coeds, and it was crawling in my hair, which gives me the willies to this day.

Yes, he did eventually kiss me on that first date, but more as a "dare me to do it/let's get this over with" than some swoony romance-novel sort of kiss. It was a kiss that said, "I'll do what I want, and I'm not doing this because first dates say I have to, or because you expect me to, i'm doing it because i'm damn well going to do it". It was practical and adamant and rife with unspoken meaning. And I liked what it said.

Then we dated for a year. Then we broke up the day before Valentine's Day, and the restaurant where we had reservations to eat burned down that night. Then we had a brief entanglement that summer. Then we didn't speak for six months. Then we got back together as adults over Scream 3 and sushi. Then we broke up because I was a bitch, and I threatened to hit him with a stick (with which he later hit me) and went to a Jethro Tull concert with my friends.

Then we got back together for good, he bought me a diamond bracelet, I left my job and moved up to Clemson, we got engaged, I bought a horse, we went roller skating, and we moved into our first house.

Only Dr. Crog can roller skate limbo in business casual.

I know that's a lot to absorb right there. Just remember-- bought the HORSE, moved into the HOUSE. Because it's just ridiculous the other way around.

And then we got hitched in the garden of an antebellum mansion and tenderly fed eachother bleedin' groundhog cake in front of 150 friends and family members. And then we went to Cancun and were drunk for four days to recover from the wedding.



So, in solid numbers, that's 12 years together, almost 7 years married, 4 houses, 1 horse, 4 college degrees, 1 cat, 2 kids. And I could not be happier. Seriously. Well, maybe if the cat was alive. But as far as my feelings for Dr. Crog, I could not be more in love with a person. He's the best friend, husband, father, provider, and zombie killer a girl could hope for. I mean, look at this guy:

Dr. Crog, you were right all along. This is the way it's supposed to be. Life with you gets better every year. Thanks for dumping my ass and hitting me with that stick.

love, d.

p.s. Dr. Crog has a 4-pack. I thought everyone should know.


4 comments:

merveilleuse said...

awwwwww!

Virginia Valerie said...

He he! Great post! So romantic....

urfaqhesse said...

well, I'm glad he managed to outsmart your then-bitchiness and make you so happy. Really, I'm just glad because you all make amazing babies, but your own personal happiness is a plus, too ;)

Happy anniversary and cheers to many, many more,
xo,
Urf

RDHe said...

Wait a second! You mention a Jethro Tull concert but say nothing about our trip to the lake? I think we went water-skiing.