1. And the Winner of the signed copy of James Dashner's MAZE RUNNER is...
Email me (addy in sidebar) your address.
2. Okay, since I had no money to buy Sam a birthday present, bear with me on today's blog...
I was in college, dating lots of Bill’s and Joe’s and Steve’s (the names have been changed to protect the super-boring), and wondering if I would ever be slammed in love, or if it was something only read about in books. Like a Tale of Two Cities.
And then you slammed into me. Literally. In the hallway at school. I dropped my books and later my pretenses, and started writing really cheesy lines like, “I dropped my pretenses.” Gag.
It took you awhile to notice me. We were in the same class, but you sat on the other side of the room next to that Heather chick, the one with the giant silver cross necklace and the clear skin and the daring necklines.
I promise she never would’ve converted for you.
Then we became BFF’s, and I thought, “this is it”, but you totally asked that "Sue" chica to the Jazz game, and told me all about it afterward.
And oh yeah, there was that missionary you were writing…
I was a waitress at The Cowboy Grub, and you came in to eat and ordered steak - which is a little silly because the Grub is known for Mexican - and my friend and co-waitress said, “That’s the guy? I totally thought you’d go for someone more… GQ. He’s a little shlubby.”
I love how we still laugh about that.
Now we’re getting older and a little squidgy around the edges, and who knew we’d be so adamant about the rule of the “4 T’s of bedsheets”: (No Tenting, No Touching, No Tucking, No Twisting).
And sure I could go without:
-Your pack rat nature. (Seriously, you still have that Bart doll from the 1980’s? Are you kidding me? Remember that time I secretly threw it away, and you got it out of the garbage?)
-And your habit of singing songs that make no sense? (See: You dancing in the kitchen, singing “Shake shake shake… Shake shake shake… Shake Beckham’s Bottle. Shake Beckham’s bottle” to the tune of “Shake Your Booty”. )
-And your clothes that would scream early 90’s if they could, only they can’t because they are old and decrepit and lost their ability to scream decades ago.
I’ll admit, you did have your snaggle tooth filed down, in a most considerate move, but the gold fillings? Gold?
Ah, but then you understand how year after year I forget the exact date of our anniversary. (The 25th. Booyah.)
And you let me drag you up to Butt-Munch Idaho, ranking just above I’m-gonna-kill-myself-if-I-stay-here-one-minute-longer, Nebraska in the Fun Department, so I could try my hand at journalism.
And we both laugh about those movies that show the couple kissing first thing in the morning, because all we can think about is gross morning breath.
And we make fun of the newscasters and their dangling participles and faux-excitement. (“Is your water poisonous? Find out at Ten. If you’re still alive.”)
You allow me my crushes:
And I yours:
And no matter how many times we see “Shaun of the Dead” we still laugh our arses off.
I love that in a funny movie, you laugh the loudest of the entire theater, even though it’s totally embarrassing for me.
So what if you have a strange attachment to actual newspapers (we subscribe to two dailies), and Tab, and beef, and sports boards, and spandex jokes, and yelling, “Who’s yo Daddy?” You still laugh every time I answer, “Dennis Ashton.”
You didn’t kill me when I did this to your hair:
So what if the first time you met my dad, and he asked that Dad Question, “Sam, what are you going to do with your life?” and you said, “I don’t know. I like sports, so maybe there’s a way to like sports for a living.”
You stayed with my dad in the hospital while I went to his own mother’s viewing because he couldn’t make it. You got him out of the anesthesia and back to his home.
So I think my dad has completely forgotten about the time you told him, “Shakespeare is okay and all, but I prefer mysteries.”
You’ve always thought I could write, even when my words resembled alphabet soup puked onto the computer screen.
And now we’ve had to tighten our belts, and all I can give you is a bunch of words. You married me, and all you got was this lousy blog post. And your perfect evening:
Happy Birthday Sam.
Me. You. The boys. Against the World.