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

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 Felt Sparks

Dear Future Husband,
Before I begin, I believe it is direly necessary to make it ABSOLUTELY clear that what I’m about to say has NOTHING to do with my grandparents or Sheesa.

Ok. With the disclaimer out of the way, allow me to continue:

Future Husband, as you might be aware, today is Valentine’s Day – the day the coupled-off world celebrates love and passion and feelings and sparks. So, in honor of this holiday, I’m going to risk being risqué and tell you about the time(s) I personally experienced sparks in the…GASP…bedroom…

Wait for it…

…at my grandparents house…while sharing a bed with Sheesa…when I was eight years old…and nine years old…AND ten years old (it happened a lot).

As I’ve mentioned before, there were ALWAYS charged emotions when Sheesa and I were forced to share a bed. Mainly because she breathed and moved her little toe, which obviously shook the ENTIRE bed and unnerved me to no end.

But the experience at my grandparents’ house was different. Little did we know, there was ANOTHER charge between those sheets. And it was called static electricity.*

Being eight or nine or ten years old, I did not understand this phenomenon. All I knew was that every time I – or Sheesa – moved, SPARKS LITERALLY FLEW.

And it scared the living crap out of me.

At any given moment, I thought we were one toss or turn away from catching the bed on fire and burning down the house. Thankfully, that never happened.

*Being the curious, intellectual and ever-learning woman that I am, I reached out to my high school Chemistry Honors/Chemistry II AP/Physics AP teacher for an explanation. Here it is: “Basically the kinetic energy of your hand moving was enough to dislodge the electrons of one material onto another material, causing a difference in electric potential. Once the difference was great enough, the voltage pushed the electrons to the lower energy state. The travel of electrons ionized the air, causing the emission of electromagnetic radiation – ‘sparks’.”

Huh? You DON’T still keep in touch with your science teacher from high school? Weird.

PS. If sparks fly in our bedroom, I’m changing the sheets.
PSS. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, I Felt Sparks