Future Husband, I Have News

Dear Future Husband,

I think it’s about time that I told you something. Brace yourself, this is BIG news:

I’m dating someone.

Actually, I’ve BEEN dating someone. For five and a half months.

I know, I know. I’m sure you don’t want to be exposed to all the juicy details about my ACTUAL dating life. The rhetoric was tolerable when the dates were hypothetical and nonexistent, and I certainly appreciate the sensitivity of the situation. However, I’m sure that you would agree that in order for me to get to Future Husband, I’m going to have to experience Current Boyfriend. And you’re just going to have to deal with it…(and hear ALL about it!)

I guess I should start from the beginning.

After all my talk of loathing the dating sites/apps, I must sheepishly admit that we met on…that’s right…a dating app. I was JUUUUST about to call it quits…again…and delete the app when HIS profile popped up. I thought he was handsome, wondered, “What if?” and decided to give it ONE. LAST. CHANCE. After all, it was free to “like” him and I had nothing to lose.

To my surprise, he initiated conversation pretty quickly. Then asked for my number. And then – get this – CALLED ME. Whoa. In the age of social media, NOBODY calls anymore. So far, so good.

When he asked me out for an upcoming Saturday night, I calmly, coolly and collectedly accepted, hung up the phone and then proceeded to go BAT SH*T CRAZY. In that moment I realized that I had limited time before our first encounter, and I was waaaaaay overdue for a hair appointment, had absolutely NOTHING to wear and my nails needed some TLC.

Thankfully, my amazing hairstylist managed to squeeze me in, last-minute, that Friday night. I emerged from the salon on cloud nine with my few grey hairs camouflaged and a fresh cut…only to quickly plummet back to reality when I realized that, in my “I have a date” giddy state of mind, I COMPLETELY forgot that one is not allowed to wash her hair for 48 hours following a coloring treatment. Which meant that the remnants of the dye would REMAIN on my forehead UNTIL I could wash my hair…a day AFTER the date. Ugh. I prayed he wouldn’t notice.

To boost my slightly waning confidence, I awoke early on Saturday to embark on an outfit-hunting mission. After hours of perusing, I triumphantly returned home with not one, but TWO, amazing, I-look-super-hot-and-he’ll-never-notice-my-forehead options. However, I swear something happened to the clothes on the car ride home because I hated both outfits the minute I stepped foot in my house. GRRRR!

So, I splurged on a gel manicure, found a presentable outfit, very strategically fixed my hair and headed to dinner. Here goes nothing!

Naturally, I was the first one there, so I waited for him inside.

And then he walked in…

I spotted him, he spotted me, we locked eyes, (cue the romantic music), he walked up to me…said “Hi” and proceeded to…SHAKE MY HAND…in front of EVERYONE (kill the romantic music). Awesome. I was logically convinced that every patron in the restaurant was now aware that we were on a first, internet-set-up date and that we had quickly become the sole topic of their conversation.

To this day, he SWEARS he didn’t shake my hand…but I would bet the future of our entire relationship on it. And I’m right…so…

Anyway, we grabbed a drink, waited for a table and had a lovely dinner. I guess our waitress didn’t see the awkward handshake because she referred to us as “her favorite couple of the night.” I’m not going to lie…I enjoyed her assumption.

Seven hours later, I told him goodnight. And, five and a half months later, we’re still going strong.

PS. He never noticed my forehead, but he DID notice my manicure. The primping paid off.

Xoxo,

Ima Waitin

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Future Husband, I Have News

Future Husband, DANG That Bug Spray

Dear Future Husband,
There are a lot of things that I have gotten REALLY good at in my single years: managing finances, tending to repairs around the house (i.e. paying someone else to tend to repairs around the house), hooking up electronics, taking the garbage out, etc. I have ZERO qualms about bringing these skills to our future life…minus maybe the garbage part, that’s ALL you.

HOWEVER, there is one category that I will happily hand over. Car stuff.

While I DID negotiate the price and purchase my own car, and I DO regularly schedule oil changes and trips to the carwash, I REALLY HATE IT. Like a lot. And I especially despise when something breaks down.

No matter how knowledgeable I may be about brake rotors, suspension systems, starters or timing belts, the MINUTE I step foot into an auto repair shop and open my mouth, the man behind the counter takes one look at me and says something like, “Aw, you’re cute. Let me pat you on the head before I ask you to take a seat so the real people (AKA men) can look at your car. MMMk?”

Ok. Ok. The man behind the counter usually asks what’s wrong and then takes my number and says he’ll call once they’ve taken a look, but you KNOW he MEANT the former.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I began to notice an annoying rattling in my car. It sounded like it was coming from the trunk, so I, naturally, emptied my trunk. But the noise didn’t stop. Ugh. Then, I made a special note to pinpoint when the rattling would occur. And it occurred every time I hit the brakes. Great.

So, I put on my big girl pants, made an appointment at the auto repair shop, gritted my teeth and took my car in.

A few hours later, my phone rang. I prepared myself for the worst and answered.

“Uh, Ms. Waitin? We took a look at your car, and there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with your brakes. We checked the back, and found, uhm, <insert muffled laughter> two cans of bug spray rolling around your trunk, in the spare tire area. So, uhm, that noise you heard when you hit the brakes? Yeah…that was the cans moving back and forth. BUT, while you’re here, your brake fluid tested bad, you need a new air filter, your windshield wipers could stand to be changed, and when was the last time you had an oil change?”

I wish I could insert a pic of my “I’m-2.5-seconds-away-from-punching-you-in-the-throat” face here.

But alas, I didn’t feel like fighting and just told him to take care of it all.

When I went to pick up the car, the man, obviously gloating in his victory, HAD THE NERVE to SHOW ME the old, disgusting, newly-bagged air filter. Gross. And THEN he asked me if I wanted to take it home. To which I replied, “OH YES! Please! I’d like to frame it and put it on my wall.”

I guess he didn’t realize “cute” little car-clueless girls were capable of sarcasm, because his face changed, and he said, rather sheepishly, “really?

“OF COURSE NOT. That would be ridiculous.”

So, he threw away the dirty air filter, knocked a bit off the price and gave me my keys. Buh Bye.

PS. I feel like I need to be honest and let you know that I know nothing about brake rotors, suspension systems, starters or timing belts…I just wanted to prove a point.
PSS. I DO know how to change a spark plug. And by spark plug, I mean fuse. I really hope you know more about cars than I do…

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, DANG That Bug Spray

Future Husband, I Expect Interest

Dear Future Husband,
I was sick last week. Like SICK. Like didn’t-make-it-into-work-A-SINGLE-DAY sick. I’ll spare you the full details, but my Mother suffered from something similar a month or so ago and summed it up nicely on her Facebook page:

“A potent stomach virus married a viral flu bug, and apparently their wedding reception venue is my body. They and all their evil friends have been partying it up pretty big, but Ibuprofen is finally starting to put a damper on their festivities. I’m so grateful for the best husband ever — he has taken such good care of me and been my lifesaver.”

In case you missed it, according to my Mother, HER LIFE WAS SAVED due to the “best husband ever.”

Regardless of the fact that hyperbole obviously runs in the family, she makes a good point: husbands REALLY come in handy when one is sick.

Please note that the aforementioned hyperbole references the statement that her life was saved due to the “best husband ever” and does NOT question the validity of my dad as actually BEING the “best husband ever” – you’ll have to take that one up with her.

Anyway, back to me and my misery. The matrimonial bugs must have known that I am open to marriage because they decided to resume their nuptial celebration in my I-have-no-husband-to-nurse-me-to-health-body. Lucky for you, I survived. And it was ALL thanks to Amazon Prime and the glorious invention of two hour shipping.

Who needs a husband when you can have Gatorade, Sprite, crackers AND toilet paper – !NEVER forget the toilet paper! – delivered STRAIGHT to your front door?!

Granted, had you been around I COULD have saved on the delivery fee. SOOOOOO, what I’m REALLY trying to say is: you now owe me $5. Thanks.

PS. I’m a businesswoman with an MBA, so you know I’ll be expecting a LOT of interest. Pay up!

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, I Expect Interest

Future Husband, It’s Our Year

Dear Future Husband,
Unbeknown to you, you are often the topic of conversation in my life…shocker. I don’t MEAN to talk about you, it just kind of happens…especially with my girlfriends. And my mother. And my mother’s girlfriends. And my girlfriends’ mothers. You get the picture. Everyone wants to know who are you. And more importantly, WHERE YOU ARE.

Anyway, my very encouraging friend and I were conversing at Chick-fil-A over lunch the other day.

Side note: I have a slight obsession with the Chick. The lady at the drive thru window, miiiight know my name. And miiiight know that I ALWAYS order a large unsweet iced tea with a splash of sweet. And miiiight see me regularly enough to notice – and comment – every single time I trim my hair.
Double side note: If the lady at the Chick drive thru window knows how I drink my iced tea and notices when I change my hair, you better also…I DO plan to see you more regularly than I see her…at least I hope…

Anyway AGAIN, my very encouraging friend and I were conversing at Chick-fil-A over lunch the other day.

We first talked about her ACTUAL husband and then starting talking about you. It was a nice conversation. I surprisingly felt encouraged, and the convo did not end in me becoming a nun this time. Phew.

As we were walking out, she looked at me and said, “Ima, I have a feeling that 2017 is going to be YOUR year. I think he’s coming soon.”

To which I replied, “Haha, yes. I hope so. But then again, that’s what everyone said to me LAST year.”

WITHOUT HESITATION or SKIPPING A BEAT, my very encouraging friend very confidently and emphatically responded with:

“Nah. I didn’t feel that way for you last year.”

BIG. TIME. PAUSE.

I needed clarification.

So, I looked at my very encouraging friend and asked, “You mean to tell me that every single time you’ve audibly encouraged me in the past 12 months by saying ‘Your time is coming soon,’ you immediately followed up said encouragement with the silent thought, ‘But it sure as heck ain’t happening THIS year!’ ?!?!?!?”

To which she replied, “I’m going to read about this in your blog, huh?”

Yep.

PS. There is still a couple of days left in 2016. By all means, feel free to prove her wrong.
PSS. I still love my very encouraging friend…you will too.

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, It’s Our Year

Future Husband, I Have A New Ritual

Dear Future Husband,
I know that we will have plenty of time to make this decision together, but I want you to know that my mind is made up: we will not be taking a cruise for our honeymoon.

Don’t get me wrong, cruises are absolutely wonderful. My livelihood currently depends on that fact. But, seeing as I am employed by a cruise line, I would prefer to do something else…I sail enough as it is.

Now, being a somewhat frequent cruiser, I have developed a few ship rituals:
1. Remove extra hangers from closet on the first night to avoid unnecessary noises (hangers tend to move with the movement of the ship, and you know how I feel about unnecessary noises).
2. Eat AT LEAST one soft serve ice cream cone each day.
3. Always enjoy/be aware of the view from one’s stateroom porthole or verandah.

During a recent sailing, I had a stateroom with a porthole. One morning, while the ship was docked at port, I completed ritual number three before getting ready: I looked out the window to assess the scene outside. On this particular morning, I had a beautiful view of the ocean – no boats, ships, barges or souls in sight. PERFECT.

So, naturally, I flung the curtains open and began getting ready. Since I had pre-established that there was no one outside with a direct line of sight into my room, I did not find it necessary to fully clothe myself whilst drying my hair.

BIG. MISTAKE.

Apparently, the crew had decided that this morning was THE PERFECT morning to, you guessed it, WASH THE WINDOWS. And they forgot to tell me.

So, here I am, singing my heart out, drying my hair, and I’ll be honest – probably doing some type of interpretive dance – when I hear this odd screeching sound. I turned JUST IN TIME to see a yellow jumpsuit wearing gentleman on a scaffold very slowly slide by my window.

NEVER have I hit the ground faster in my life. I then proceeded to wrap myself in the curtains for what felt like an hour while my heart beat returned to normal. AWK-WARD. Needless to say, I was understandably VERY reluctant to make eye contact with anyone donning yellow for the rest of the day.

And now, I have added a fourth ritual: regardless of scene outside, wear clothing and limit interpretive dancing if stateroom curtains are open.

PS. Wherever we honeymoon, we WILL be asking for the window-washing schedule.

xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, I Have A New Ritual

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?”

YIKES. YIKES. YIKES.

“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??”

“Huh?”

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.

Xoxo,
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.

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, Don’t Mess with the Dino