Future Husband, Let’s Have Fun

Dear Future Husband,
Inevitably, on every first date, I am asked the following question:

“So, what do you do for fun??”

As soon as the words are uttered, I IMMEDIATELY panic as I simultaneously internalize my entire existence, which usually ends in me feeling like the most BORING PERSON EVER. I mean, I think I’m loads of fun, but OMG THE PRESSURE!

But, when presented with such a personality-defining question, one cannot remain silent.

So, I simply respond, “I write.”

Which usually leads to, “About what?”


“Well, you see, I write these letters about my dating life to my currently non-existent Future Husband, whom you just MIGHT be, but I have no idea as this is only our first encounter, and then I post them for the world to read since I obviously cannot share them with him at the moment. So, if you’re NOT my Future Husband, would you at least do something interesting/entertaining so that I have fodder for my next post??”


And maybe that’s why I’m still single.

PS. I’m not dumb…I would never tell you about my blog on the first date: I’d let you find it on Facebook instead.
PSS. On the off chance that you would actually appreciate the above, you TRULY are my Future Husband.

Ima Waitin

Future Husband, Let’s Have Fun

Future Husband, Don’t Mess with the Dino

Dear Future Husband,
It’s almost October, which means it’s almost the month of my birth. As a result, I think this is a GREAT time to tell you about my dinosaur obsession.

That I had when I was three years old.

Actually, that I had when I was two-and-three-quarters-years-old and in the midst of birthday party planning.

I have NO idea where my dino love originated, but my toddler self made it 100% clear to my mother that I wanted a dinosaur-themed shindig. And, of course, as the sole center of my mother’s world (Sheesa was still in the womb at this time), she (probably questioningly) obliged.

So, my mother and I meandered to the one and only (and incredibly expensive) party store in town to collect dino napkins, plates, party bags and any other prehistoric elements we could find. The perusing was going well UNTIL something bright and colorful caught my eye: the piñata aisle.

I have to admit, my two-and-three-quarters-year-old self did not truly understand the meaning of “theme” and couldn’t comprehend that piñatas didn’t belong in the mesozoic era. ALL I knew was piñatas were pretty. And I wanted one – a DINOSAUR one.

Now, I have to hand it to my mother. This was long before the days of Etsy and online shopping (and the Internet in general), so you couldn’t just surf the web to find whatever item you wanted themed to whatever theme you wanted. You either bought what was available OR made it at home (with no step-by-step Pinterest guide). Well, there wasn’t a dinosaur piñata to be found, so the crafting began.

I actually remember making that paper mache brachiosaurus piñata on the kitchen table. We soaked strips of newspaper in glue and then covered a balloon with SO. MANY. LAYERS. Then, we attached toilet paper rolls for the legs and paper towel rolls for the neck and tail. And finally, painted it green. It was spectacular.

As I OOOed and AWWWed over my BEAUTIFUL dinosaur, my mother, in THAT moment, had a disturbing revelation: Her two-and-three-quarters-year-old daughter had absolutely ZERO idea what the fate of that piñata would be…

So, she sat me down and explained that we were going to beat my beautiful and perfect dinosaur to a pulp with sticks until it bled candy.

Just kidding.

I’m clearly a well-functioning adult, so I’m sure she found a less violent and traumatic explanation. But, the point being – I got the point.

My mother says that my eyes got SUPER big, and I ADAMANTLY stated that “NO ONE was going to hit MY dinosaur with a stick!”

So, after ALL that, there was no dinosaur piñata at my third birthday party. But there WAS a beautiful brachiosaurus table centerpiece.

PS. The minute my party was over, I outgrew my dinosaur obsession. You’re welcome. Or, pending your love for dinos, I’m sorry.

Ima Waitin

Future Husband, Don’t Mess with the Dino

Future Husband, Don’t Be Late

Dear Future Husband,
You were almost too late. I think I almost got hitched.

Let me explain.

I travel A LOT. Traveling is one of my passions, and I do it as frequently as I possibly can. (It would be wise to apply for a passport now, you’re going to need it once we meet.)

On one of my last trips, I found myself in the Caribbean. Side note: people are very friendly in the Caribbean – and talking about one’s love life with a complete stranger is apparently 100% completely acceptable.

My trip was coming to an end, and a very nice gentleman offered to give me a ride to the airport (don’t worry, while he was a stranger to me personally, he was also an established business acquaintance…I don’t get in the car with COMPLETE strangers…unless it’s Uber). Riding in silence during our commute was NOT an option, and he made very good use of the time by asking me a million questions about myself. Now, I’m not super outgoing at first, but I appreciated his friendliness, so I engaged in the conversation. But then, he went for the jugular and asked, “Are you married?”

To which I replied “Uhm, No.”

I thought he was going to STRAIGHT UP stop the car.

“WHAT?! You’re not married? WHY EVER NOT? You just don’t want to be? Turned all the guys down? How old are you?”

Oy vei.

I kept my cool, decided to take his astonishment as a compliment and politely explained that I just hadn’t found the right one at the right time.

At that moment, this stranger of a gentleman realized that he, in fact, KNEW the right one – his cousin Stuart – and decided to give him a call. Right then. Right there. Timing is everything…

I sat in bewilderment as this man called Cousin Stuart and proceeded to tell him that he was sitting in a car with a pretty single girl, and he thought that the two of us would be a GREAT match. The only problem was that he was taking this gal to the airport, so Stuart would probably have to make a trip to the United States for the first date.

Funny, right? I thought so too…until he HANDED ME THE PHONE. WHAT?!?!?!

So, I talked to Cousin Stuart. I thought he was going to apologize for his cousin’s forwardness and the unavoidable awkwardness that was this situation, but no. Cousin Stuart apparently COMPLETELY trusts his cousin because he was 100% onboard with this set up. He expressed his disappointment that I was leaving that day and invited me back to the islands so that he could personally show me around. Finally, he asked if could take me out the next time he was in the United States.

I told him “Sure…just look up Ima (last name omitted) on Facebook and you should be able to find me.”

Apparently that worked for him, and I was able to END the conversation.

In that moment, I was IMMENSELY grateful that I had failed to mention to my friendly chauffeur that my flight wasn’t leaving for another seven hours…as I’m pretty sure that would have given the eager duo ample time to arrange the wedding before takeoff.

PS. I’m avoiding the Caribbean until we meet…don’t want to take any chances.
PSS. I have to travel to the Caribbean for work, so please come soon…

Ima Waitin

Future Husband, Don’t Be Late

Future Husband, Time To Reveal

Dear Future Husband,
If your social media accounts are anything like mine, they are probably flooded with posts, pictures and videos from the new-ish party phenomenon thrown by millennial preggos* and their hubbies – the gender reveal.

*Yes, I just referred to pregnant ladies as “preggos.” I, personally, don’t think it’s offensive, but this IS 2016 (and I’ve never been pregnant…) So, I’ll apologize in advance. I’m sorry. HOWEVER, I’m actually considering posting “my eggo’s been preggo-ed” to announce that we’re expecting one day. You’re allowed to veto (but you have to agree it’s stinkin’ clever).

Anyway, after watching a MILLION and ONE videos of couples biting into cupcakes, slicing cakes, releasing balloons, popping balloons, punting footballs, hitting baseballs, shooting targets or whatever creative method they choose, I began to realize…the reaction is ALWAYS the same. It usually involves cheering – nay screaming – a lot of jumping and oftentimes tears.

And I have the following questions:

1. Why is everyone SO surprised? I mean, there is a 100% chance that the result is either boy or girl. I’d agree that the screaming would be warranted if the announcement was that newly revealed baby girl would exit the womb holding a billion dollars…but…

2. Should a pregnant lady REALLY be jumping like that?

3. How is it that I’ve watched a million of these videos and not been invited to a single one?

But, alas, I continue to watch them…while secretly waiting for reveal that breaks the mold:

Couple bites into cupcake to reveal blue icing. Husband looks at wife and says, “Well dang. Try again in 9 months?”
Balloon pops to reveal yellow confetti with a note: “Your baby will inform you of its chosen gender in roughly 15 years. SURPRISE!”

Also, I’d like to point out that I’m pretty sure gender reveal parties back in the day were simply called “giving birth.” But whatever. I’m all for one more reason to celebrate and eat cake.

PS. If this is still a “thing” by the time we have kids, we’re totally doing it.
PSS. Remind me of this post when I INEVITABLY scream and cry…I probably won’t jump.

Ima Waitin

Future Husband, Time To Reveal

Future Husband, You Can Handle IT

Dear Future Husband,
I could have REALLY used your help around 11:23pm the other night.

I was getting ready for bed and had just washed my face. I was reaching for the towel hanging over my shower rod when I noticed IT.

IT = the biggest, ugliest, yellowest and orangest (I just created a word) spider I have ever seen.

I might have cursed your unknown name at that point for forcing me to deal with IT in my helpless, very tired and female-who-hates-spiders state.

But alas, I had to do SOMETHING. I tried many different ways to knock IT from the ceiling. I removed the shower head and sprayed the ceiling (NOT the best idea…remind me to point out the decorative water stains that I’m totally blaming on you after we meet). I threw things at IT (apparently I have horrible aim when it comes to hurling near weightless objects at a targeted area). Nothing worked.

Angry or amused (I couldn’t accurately decipher IT’s feelings), IT began toying with me by descending from and re-climbing its lifeline of silk over and over again. Then, IT triumphantly returned to its original position defiantly perched on the ceiling. Back to square one.

In my now desperate state, I was – you guessed it – desperate. I had to try ONE more time. I concocted a VERY resourceful plan involving my hairspray can. I removed the lid, filled it with water, got close to IT and forcefully splashed IT off the ceiling. VICTORY!

The problem: everything that went up, of course, came down. On my head. And I freaked out.

After doing a little frantic (ok, a LOT frantic) dance, I saw IT on the shower floor. And under the hairspray can lid IT went…until the morning.

…..break for 7 hours of IT-infested dreams….

I awoke the next morning not rested in the least, but ready for round two nonetheless. I called my mother to tell her about the incident, and when she learned that I had kept IT imprisoned all night and had not yet released IT, her words were – and I quote – “Sooner better than later — poor IT is prob hungry. And scared.”

And now, I ACTUALLY began EMPATHIZING with IT, and completely felt bad for inducing starvation and panic on this poor, helpless creature.

So, I slipped some paper under the hairspray can lid and carefully took IT outside to set IT free.

As soon as IT realized IT was free, IT immediately began to CHARGE at me. I knocked IT back. IT charged again. I knocked IT back again. And the charge continued. And then I ran inside and slammed the door.

At this point, I was terrified that IT was going to try to come inside again, so I peeked out the front door window. And, right where IT WAS formally standing, sat a very large and satiated looking lizard.

Oops. Sorry, IT.

PS. Had you been around, the situation would not have been NEARLY as dramatic…unless you, too, are not a fan of spiders.
PSS. Even if you are NOT a fan of spiders, you will still assume spider (and lizard, frog, roach, rodent, bird, moth, anything that flies/crawls that could potentially EVER enter the house) duties, should they occur.

Ima Waitin

Future Husband, You Can Handle IT

Future Husband, Do You Know My Mother?

Dear Future Husband,
You should probably be aware of the fact that I talk to my mother…A LOT. And then she immediately tells my dad everything, so I INdirectly talk to my dad A LOT. Therefore, my parents consistently know A LOT about me, and in due time, will know A LOT about you. I hope that’s ok. If not, speak now or forever hold your peace. Well, actually, I guess “speak now or forever never show up” would work just as well here…

Anyway, I was talking to my mother this weekend, and she excitedly exclaimed, “Ima! I met your future husband! I know who you’re going to marry! I’m not even kidding…I think I REALLY found him!” Now, this exclamation was pretty earth-shattering considering SHE HAS NEVER ONCE even remotely made this claim before. And, if you’ll remember, she is totally against arranging my marriage. So, intrigued, I asked her to continue.

My mother then went on to explain how she knew this most eligible and perfect bachelor and everything she had learned about him – which was amazingly and shockingly VERY LITTLE. (He’s older than me, taller than me, employed and a Christian…I tell ya, my Mother is a SLEUTH!)

So, I agreed that this was great news and asked if she had told this most eligible and perfect bachelor that she had a most eligible and perfect daughter who was also very single?

Her response, “No.”

Well, are you GOING to tell him? (That was my next question.)

Her response, “No, I think that would be too weird.”

Hmm…ok, then. Exactly HOW am I supposed to MARRY this guy if we are never introduced?

Her response, “You’re a smart girl…I KNOW you can figure it out. Why don’t you find him online and send him a message to introduce yourself?”


Because it would BE TOTALLY WEIRD for YOU, dear Mother, to speak to a man whom you actually KNOW to let him know that you believe that he and your daughter – who happens to be of similar age, intelligence and religious upbringing – just MIGHT hit it off and would it be OK if you set up an introduction the next time she is in town?

And it would BE TOTALLY NOT WEIRD for ME – who has no apparent social common factor with this man other than a Mother who refuses to acknowledge anything – to CYBER STALK him from three states away, find his contact information and social media profiles, creepily send him a message to introduce myself and pray that he interprets my request for a date as just that, a date, rather than an elaborate, yet romantic, attempt to end his life.

You’re right, Mother. It would be CRAZY for me to ask you to introduce us. I’ll just keep you posted on the relationship – or the restraining order. Just know that restraining orders typically make it tough to produce grandchildren.

PS. Future Husband, if you DO happen to be this gentleman, I was able to find your picture online. And I think you’re handsome. So, at least we have that working for us…
PSS. Future Husband, if you are NOT this gentleman, you can thank my Mother for not introducing him to me.

Ima Waitin

Future Husband, Do You Know My Mother?

Future Husband, Age Is Just A Number

Dear Future Husband,
I was talking to a girl the other day, and she said something. And I think you’ll appreciate it. If not now, definitely in about 15-20 years.

We were talking about clothes (and NO, I do NOT expect you to appreciate that). I mentioned to her that the last time I purchased a *puffy vest* was right before I began my freshman year of college.

*Definition of a puffy vest: A stylish feather-filled (usually down) vest that serves absolutely NO purpose as, when worn in cold temperatures, leaves one’s arms FREEZING and when worn in moderately cool temperatures, makes one’s midsection SWEAT LIKE HECK. But hey, they’re super cute, and I wear ‘em…or the single one I own…anyway.

I realized in that moment how many years had passed since my puffy vest purchase and said aloud, “Oh my goodness…freshman year of college was almost 15 years ago!”

She looked at me for a moment and responded with, “Woah. I totally thought we were the same age.”

So, OF COURSE, I asked her how old she was.

Get ready…

She said, “I’m 18.”

Then it was MY turn to say, “WOAH…” Followed by, “Bless you dear child.” Emphasis on child.

“Nope. I’m definitely NOT 18.” Maybe 18…PLUS 13. Ok, I’m EXACTLY 18 plus 13.

But, my dear Future Husband, here is why you’ll appreciate this: Your future wife will always look young.

I’m going to take this as truth and put it out there (and hopefully not jinx myself in the process)…when I’m 50, I’ll prob pass for 38. And I’m ok with that.

PS. If you look mature for your age, it’ll appear as though you scored a much younger woman.

Ima Waitin

Future Husband, Age Is Just A Number