Lesson 14: Trucks Twinkle, Too

In February 2002, my lifelong dream came true. I got a car. Sleek and silver. A 2002 Mazda Protege. With a sunroof. In January 2004, Nathan's lifelong dream came true. He got a truck. Teal and tough. A 1997 Ford 150 Lariet edition quad cab. With a cap. In the very moment of dream realization for Nathan, my nightmare began. I didn't get the big whoop about trucks. They guzzle gas. They make parking nearly impossible. They make your trip anywhere at least five minutes longer. But, oh, how my views have changed.

Nathan began his clinicals for chiropractic school that spring; the clinic was located about twenty-five minutes away, across the river from us in Rock Island, Illinois. I worked as the Graduate Assistant of Student Activities at the university I attended. My trek to work was a mere twelve minutes, half of Nathan's. With gas prices soaring, we decided it made sense to switch. He'd start driving my little Protege and I'd start driving his big truck. Gross.

Let's rewind to my first experience driving the truck, aka the Big Rig. A bunch of our friends were getting together for dinner at a Japanese restaurant for sushi and a birthday celebration. I personally would not celebrate my birthday with raw fish, but that's not the point. It was the first snow of that season and Nathan's first time drinking saki. Turns out he likes saki just as much as he loves snow. And let me tell you, he REALLY loves snow. I don't like snow or saki. About seven saki bombs later, Nathan presented as incapable of driving the Big Rig. By default, that left me. Snow. Darkness. A drunk kid next to me singing songs at the top of his lungs. Obviously, we made it home safe and sound. As I plopped on our warm, comfy, SAFE couch, I thought, "Thank goodness I will never have to drive that thing again." The joke was on me.

In March 2005, we made the switch official. The truck more or less became mine. The car more or less became his. He didn't mind driving the weenie car. On the other hand, I minded driving the truck. Until one day at Wendy's. As I pulled up to the pick up window to pay for and get my food, the young worker, a boy about age sixteen, gave the Big Rig the old up and down like he was looking at a hot babe. Then he looked at me, the actual hot babe, and said, "That's a nice truck you have." My ego bloated a bit. I drove home thinking, maybe it was a nice truck I had.

Within the next few months, parking got easier, lane changes got smoother, and the country tunes got louder. It was within those weeks I learned about the Truck Nod. It must be some kind of unspoken code that if you are driving a nice truck and pass another person driving a nice truck, you give a no-nonsense, curt "we both know we have nice trucks" nod. At first, I stayed on the receiving and replicating end of the Truck Nod. Now, I nod to every nice truck I see before they even get the chance. In addition to Truck Nods, I also get a bit of "what the?" double takes. Usually from men who could be cute under their scruff. Sometimes I wonder how ridiculous this city-girl most look in a nice truck, decked out in her nice Ann Taylor threads, nice Nine West shoes, and nice Vera Bradley bag; then I realize...I look damn good! There is absolutely something to be said about driving a truck. It makes me feel powerful, unbeatable, proud even.

Every day, I pull into the parking lot at work. Sure, I have to park kind of far away and in the clear so I don't ding someone while backing out. A few extra steps of walking never hurt anyone. And yes, it takes me fifteen minutes instead of twelve to get to work. A few extra minutes of the Today show on the AM radio never hurt anyone either. The Big Rig is great for grocery shopping, great for camping, and great for long road trips. And I've started to notice that as I drive down Locust Street in Davenport, on a pristine, radiant, and happy Iowa day, if the sun meets the hood of the Big Rig at just the right angle, it twinkles.

Lesson 13: Grow Your Own Orangeapples

Perhaps it's time for some history on Nathan and myself to help you, Unknown Reader, get a better feel for us.

Let's begin with oranges and apples:

1.) Politics - I'm a "big liberal" as described by Nathan. (I've been called worse.) He's a big conservative. (Oh, how it pains me!)

2.) Hometown - I'm from Arlington Heights, Illinois, aka Suburbia, USA. He's from Helenville, Wisconsin, population 300. Need I say more?

3.) Personality - I'm high strung, including temper tantrums when my eggs don't turn out right. He's laid back, including dirty closets and requests to refrain from egg tantrums.

4.) Family - I'm adopted; don't look like anyone I know. He's home grown. (Your term will be famous, Mom!) And he looks like his mom and sisters.

5.) Reputation - I'm a nerd. A great Friday night used to include Lysol Tub and Tile Cleaner and a Muppet Movie. He's a partier. While different now, a great Friday night used to include beer, booze, and babes.

I made a promise to myself that I would NOT get (too) political in this blog. After the 2004 election, aka the dagger in my back, Nathan and I decided it would be best to simply not discuss politics. With that said, I will do my best to explain. First, when Nathan and I met, I was un-political in the historically political town of Madison, Wisconsin. And then I became a social worker. That in itself should suffice. While our pre-marital counselor would describe our heated debates as "intellectual intimacy," they usually ended with a knot in my stomach, disappointed shaking heads on both sides, and no sex before bed. Why let a marriage suffer? I mean, I can't blame him. He's a veteran for cripes sake. Besides, when it comes down to it, we have the same core values. We believe in life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness...I just think some people have less of a chance at those things because of social barriers created by the capitalistic and patriarchal nature of American culture. (I just couldn't resist.) Again, the importance of reframing; I would much rather have a partner who at least took the time to think about such matters as opposed to one who had no clue what occurred in our country. Of course, every now and then we scuffle, but now when it seems to be heading toward stomach knots, I quickly change the subject with a clever question to redirect him such as, "When do you think Brett Favre is doing right now?"

In regards to our upbringing, we differ there, too, but in truth, it's really not that different at all. As previously stated, I grew up in Arlington Heights, IL, a suburb of my kind of town, Chicago. 80,000 people strong with a gas station, Target, mall, and chain restaurant within five minutes of any home. For the first twelve years of his life, Nathan grew up in Waukesha, WI, a suburb of Milwaukee similar to that of Arlington Heights. But when his mom remarried, his stepdad shipped them out to the Pridelands, aka Mike and Dawn's Deer Haven, a 125 acre plot of land surrounded by farms, picket fences, and woods. He even has a "crick" in his backyard. And that is where the fun stories come in.

I remember our first trip out to the Deer Haven vividly. In July, things were swiftly becoming serious between us. We went from Nathan and Maggie to Nathan-and-Maggie very quickly. He had met my fam at the semi-annual Fitzgerald Family Reunion earlier that month. (Poor Nathan. The word got out that he was going to pick me up from Lake Lawn Lodge, the party place, to bring as his date to a wedding. No joke, by the time he got there, every female aunt, cousin, and sister was lined up to check out this guy.) Back to the Deer Haven. By the fall, it just seemed right for him to bring me home, too. We hopped in his car, which I affectionately referred to as the Tic Tac due to its sea foam green hue, and began the trek through the lush rolling hills and farmland of Lake Country in Wisconsin. Now, evidently Nathan took the most "bumble route" he could to see how I would react. Of course, I failed to vocalize any of the thoughts racing through my mind, such as:

1.) People really live out here?

2.) Are there places more bumble than this?

3.) What am I getting myself into?

Instead, when we arrived at the Deer Haven, I commented on how beautiful the land was. Enter one of his younger sisters. A simple and understated strikingly beautiful young woman...sporting protective goggles while holding a whooshing weed whacker. In my Suburbia USA mind, I thought, "Don't you hire people to do that?"

And the fun stories do not possibly stop there. By the fall, he had met my whole fam damnly, but I had only met one of his sisters. Back to the Deer Haven we went. This time, I met his mom, his older sister, the younger sister again, and his itty bitty sister, too. His stepdad was on a hunting trip in some far off exotic place. I didn't know what to wear. After the Weed Whacking Incident, I didn't want to be too dressy and appear pretentious. But I didn't want to be too casual and appear clueless either. I decided on a turquoise halter top, khaki shorts, and sandals. For the record, I was told we would go out to dinner at a casual place. Not so much.

Now, Nathan is a rough and tumble kind of guy. He chews. He drinks beer. He's loud. I guess I just figured his mom would be kind of rough and tumble, too. Maybe would even have a piece of hay coming out of her mouth with her hands in the pockets of her overalls. Boy, was I wrong. When we arrived at the Deer Haven we took the back stairs of the deck up into the kitchen where I was greeted by all the women in his life...it was payback from the Fitzgerald Family Reunion, I suppose. The second I met my now mother-in-law, I saw the same twinkle in her eye that I was starting to love in Nathan's. His older and very pregnant sister sat at the table eating tortilla chips -- my kind of woman. The younger sister did not have a weed whacker this time. And his itty bitty sister, who now has boobs and boyfriends, was seven. All rather soft spoken, at least more so than my family. The kind of family that plays board games and cards together, goes fishing and hunting, that kind of thing. So we all talked and after a bit, it was time for dinner. My mother-in-law went to change and came out in a cute seersucker white jacket and skirt. Worried about my now apparent poor choice in clothes, I asked where we were eating. Oh, just the supper club. For those of you from Suburbia USA like me, supper clubs are nice. That was the first time I got the womanly "I am going to kill you" thoughts toward Nathan. Again, for the record, I was told casual.

Now let's contrast with my family. To begin, my dad is an orthopedic surgeon, about as far off from chiropractor as you can get. (Nathan's stepdad is a chiropractor, too.) I am one of four kids, two boys, two girls. All rather boisterous. We grew up in a lovely four bedroom home on about a quarter of an acre. We attended private grade school, college prep high school, and ginormous malls. Instead of playing board games, our family, well -- didn't. Think ADD everywhere you turn. Instead of hunting and fishing, we vacationed in Hilton Head and looked at fish. Nevertheless, our families did have two big things in common. Both of our dads have a low tolerance for fools. A great trait Nathan and I have thus acquired. And if there was a contest for the Best Mom Ever, Nathan and I would spend the rest of our lives arguing about which one of our moms would win.

So we have small town meets city. You must be asking, "How do you do it, Maggie?" Well, the answer is simple. You just do. You embrace each other's differences and realize that your children will have the best of both worlds. One grandma will tell you to put your shoes by the door in case something exciting happens in the middle of the night and you have to go quickly, just like my grandma did and my mom will do. And another grandma who will play cards with you all night and share her wisdom about life, just like his grandma did and his mom will do. One grandpa who can keep them healthy with regular chiropractic care, and another to call when that just doesn't do the trick. One family who they will go to Cubs games with, shopping on Michigan Avenue with, and have breakfast at Panera on Sundays. Another who will teach them how to rig up a fishing pole, shoot a rifle, and have home-cooked breakfast on weekends. What more could you ask for?

In a lot of ways, Nathan and I are cut from the same cloth. We are both rather intelligent (i.e Doctor of Chiropractic and Master of Social Work). And according to Nathan, we are both "good lookin'." We have the same sense of humor. We love The Beatles. We love to read. We both want to learn as much as we can during our lifetime, be all we can be, all that stuff. And above all, we appropriately adapt to whatever seems right, be it independence, dependence, and most importantly, interdependence.

Oh, but the differences persist. I am, to the best of my abilities, a perfectionist. I like to be ontime, in fact, even early. I like things in order, even my dishtowles, which are arranged by color. I like lists; they help me to get as much done in a day as possible. I like things to match, so much so that when Nathan gave me a beautiful marquisite cross for my birthday one year, I had to go and buy a matching ring so I had something to go with it. I like symmetry and balance; every item in our home has its place, even my pile of clothes that sits to the right of our bedroom door (never for too long, by the way).

Nathan is, to the best of his abilities, a carefree guy. Time? Overrated. He likes to leave for the movies seven minutes before it starts, even though it's a ten minute drive. Order? Ha! His closet is a mound of garments. Don't ask me what's clean or dirty. Lists? Give me a break. He JUST started using a planner this year. Matching? Well, I mean, the guy isn't color blind, but I don't think he has ever gone out of his way to buy a pair of pants to coordinate with any shirts I've given him. Symmetry and balance? Just plain not interested.

Again, you must be asking, "How do you do it, Maggie?" Again, you just do. You embrace each other's differences...or more accurately, make fun of them and hide them. Time? We do somehow manage to make it on time just when the actual movie begins; who needs previews anyways? Order? I keep my stuff how I like it. The salvation here: living room furniture with drawers and closets with doors. If I can't see it, it doesn't bug me. Nathan has about a half dozen messy drawers that I simply don't deal with. Problem solved. Lists? I guess he has them in his head. I have mine on paper. So far, no harm, no foul. Matching? Since he could care less about it, it's not much of a problem. Symmetry and balance? Well here, he just likes to play games. I realize this odd obsession is ridiculous, that most people don't feel anxious if their candles are not spaced almost exactly evenly apart. Nathan, my hilarious husband, gets his jollies by blatantly shifting items from their designated posts. I must reluctantly admit, whenever I find a household soldier out of line, I giggle at his childishness and at myself a bit, too.

All in all, the Omick's are apples and oranges. But when you combine the two, what you get is a delectable and unique fruit. One that is not too sweet nor too sour. Not too round or too top heavy. Instead, what results is a tangy and wholesome treat, rich in differences that together create uncommon and complementary, fiery and organic produce. I have found that the key to a healthy relationship is simple: grow your own orangeapples.

Lesson 12: When Shit Happens, Scoop It Up and Throw It Away

As previously mentioned, I knew that when I met Nathan in March 2000, there was something different about him. I knew that he'd always be in my life. By July 2001, I knew he was The One.

Here's a quick synopsis of my life, external symptom-wise, from March-July 2001:

-lip and mouth ulcers
-impetigo across my face, under my arms, on my shoulders, down my shins
-random red spots all over my body
-purple-ish lesions on my face, hands, and feet

Here's a quick synopsis of my life, internal symptom-wise, from March-July 2001:

-coagulating blood
-yeast infections two to three times a month
-high ANA panel, a blood test that indicates autoimmune deficiency

Here's a quick synopsis of my life, potential diagnosis-wise from March-July 2001:

-endocarditis
-syphilis
-herpes
-HIV/AIDS
-discoid lupus
-rheumatoid arthritis
-erythyma multiformae
-CD IV (like AIDS, but not AIDS)
-at last, but not least, systemic lupus erythymous, or SLE for short

After my twenty-first birthday, I was hospitalized for five days for, at first, endocarditis. I certainly will not bore you, torment you, or frustrate you with the process of:

1.) being discharged with one diagnosis

2.) having the meds prescribed not work at all

3.) and not knowing what I had, how I had it, or what to do about it.

Instead, I will grace you with the process of:

1.) finding out I had SLE

2.) having lunch at Burger King

3.) and knowing what I had and what to do about it...but not how I had it.

Nathan had taken me to a clinic one day for some (more) blood work. My internist was still trying to figure out what the F was wrong with me. As I exited the clinic and got into his car, my cell rang. It might as well have been the Grim Reaper on the line. A close second, it was my internist. Tests came back. Indicated SLE. Should set up an appointment with rheumatologist. Call if I need her.

Now, Nathan had been great when we thought it was a rare reaction to the herpes virus earlier that summer. Very supportive. Researched a lot. Very understanding. Once we knew it wasn't, we expected some icky news.

I hung up the phone. Updated him through tears, numbness, and strife. (I forgot to mention that in the back seat was Jim, a man with cerebral palsy that Nathan worked with as a mentor in college.) So, Nathan, Jim, and I did what anyone else would do: we went to Burger King.

With a Whopper as my guide, I tried to process what was going on. I was pissed it took the doctors months to figure out what was the matter with me. I was pissed that all of the sudden, I had an autoimmune disease that might essentially eat away at my organs. I was pissed that I was only twenty-one and that my life would never be the same. I felt dark, dim, doomed.

Now, let's try to guesstimate what may have been going through Nathan's mind:

1.) Poor Maggie.

2.) Poor me.

3.) How did I manage to finally find The Girl with a disease that will forever effect her life, our life, my life?

As he sat across the table from me, shoulder to shoulder with Jim, he looked pensive. While I spear-headed my own pity-party, I couldn't help but think about him. I felt scared. I felt guilty. I felt sorry. It only seemed fair to give him the out. Here was this handsome, intelligent, charming twenty-four-year-old young man, about to begin his adult life. We weren't engaged. We'd been together only a year. He'd look like a total dick if he dumped me, even though as far as I was concerned, would be warranted.

As we finished our fries and piled back up into his car to drive Jim home, I did what I knew was right. I explained to him that I would understand if he wanted to throw in the towel, admit he got a lemon, and end our relationship -- no questions asked. I was not about to let my unfortunate misfortune inhibit his life. He precociously responded, "Well, what are we talkin' here? I mean, are you going to be around for twenty years?" I explained that, yes, most people with SLE had a normal life expectancy. He replied, "Well, that'll work. I'm not going anywhere."

And that was it. Our relationship looked SLE square in the eye and said, "Fuck you."

From that June until Halloween, the course of my so-called SLE was anything but clear. I had it. I didn't. I might have early signs. I might not. The doctors seemed to know something was wrong, just not what. Lots of blood work. Lots of depression. But not lots of pity from Nathan.

I'm not gonna lie. My girlfriends were supportive (except one who told everyone behind my back that I was doing it for attention...because I could make my blood clot and erupt skin lesions evidently). Once Nathan decided to stick it out with me, it was almost like nothing ever happened. He was interested in learning about SLE, but not so interested in my case of it. Was he scared? Was he a jerk? Was he right? I think a little of all of the above. Let's ponder:

1.) Was he scared? Yes. He never said it then. However, in the summer of 2004, when some weird skin things popped up again on me, he told me he was. I can only imagine how scared he was in 2001, when my symptoms were 100 times worse.

2.) Was he a jerk? Yes. Flowers would have been nice for Pete's sake.

3.) Was he right? Absolutely. Did I want pity from him? Yes. Did I get it? No. What I got was very matter-of-fact guidance. "It's like cancer," he'd say. "You can sit in the corner all day and spend your time crying, or you can tell it to fuck off and get on with your life." It made sense. It'd motivate me, at least temporarily, to move on.

It was a challenging time individually. I think I have an inkling of what it must be like to suffer with chronic depression. I think I have an inkling of what it must feel like to find out you have cancer and it will never go away. I think I have an inkling of what it feels like to truly feel powerless, hopeless.

It was also a challenging time as a couple. Often times, women with SLE struggle to become and remain pregnant. At one point, I was told one of the most dangerous things for me to do would be to get pregnant. We had already discussed our practically burning desire to have kids. After the SLE diagnosis, we joked that we would be the only multi-cultural family in Wisconsin with our multi-ethnic adopted children. For quite sometime, the focus of our relationship was me, not us, and that had to have bothered him.

Now I understand Nathan's approach. You can't live your life afraid, or sad, or pissed. You have to just keep going. Shit happens. Your life depends on what you do with it. Some sit in the shit all day and sob. Some step in it and bring a bit with them everywhere they go. Some scoop it up and throw it out. Shit will always happen. How you handle it dictates your life.

As one who used to step in it and bring a bit everywhere I went, marrying one who scoops it up and throws it out has been rewarding. People don't want your life's terds all up in their carpet. It took me years to understand how shit could NOT ruin your life. I have learned from Nathan's resiliency, level-headedness, and attitude to scoop and throw. I am happier. More optimistic. More likely to laugh at life than cry over it, because Lord knows, if we didn't laugh, we'd cry.

Currently, I do not have SLE. In October 2001, after another round of blood tests, all the results were negative, leaving no indication of SLE or any autoimmune disease. Seems as though being on a prophylactic treatment of penicillin coupled with the pill and Diflucan (prescribed for chronic yeast infections), caused not systemic, but drug-induced lupus. Basically a mimicked form of SLE not caused by an autoimmune disease, but prescribed drugs. It's funny, isn't it, how life works out? I get an awful disease caused by medical doctors prescribing drugs. I marry a man who is a holistic chiropractor. In October 2001, I swore off pills. I have been nearly symptom-free for years under chiropractic care. How's that for a plug?

So, I knew what I had: lupus, and a great, great boyfriend. I knew what I had to do about it: get on with my life and hang onto that man! How did I have it? Well, the lupus thing was, as previously mentioned, drug-induced. The boyfriend? I don't know quite how I got him, possibly also drug-induced. My memory seems...dazed and confused. (Sorry again, Mom and Dad).

Lesson 11: Break the Rules

Three short stories on how breaking the rules can make you feel lovable, loving, and loved. Get ready, this is a long post. But well worth the read, if you ask me.

1. Lovable

Every college kid has a fake ID. If they don't, they've either lost it, got it yanked by the cops, have no money, or are a huge nerd. I had one. Not a good one though. I literally found it on the floor of a burger joint in Madison. A homely girl from "Up North." Done and done! Most of the time, it worked, which makes one question if she, too, is possibly homely.

Once Nathan came along, I ventured into the less mainstream bars on campus and into the world of pubs, bar and grills, and sports bars. I never really felt comfortable in the uppity bars anyways. I did, however, go through a brief and never-again-to-be-seen semi-trampy-I-Love-Britney-Spears phase. Nevertheless, I didn't like the typical sorority girl things. Didn't like mixed drinks. Didn't like shots. Didn't like getting bombed four nights a week.

I liked beer. I liked to sit and smoke cigarettes and talk. Where the jukebox played "Dream On" by Aerosmith and you could order fried food. But I liked to look like a sorority girl doing it. Complete with my coordinating Gap bag and belt.

With Nathan, I felt automatically comfortable. I knew I could roll up in a pub sporting bitch boots and TBPs (tight black pants...a 1999-2002 sorority MUST) and he'd love it. To the other extreme, I knew I could roll up to the bar and grill in what basically amounts to a Mom Sweater. A creme, hand-knit gigantic Irish wool cardigan with shiny brown woven buttons.

Remember the ID with the homely girl from Up North? Integral prop in this story. Nathan invited me out with his boys for booze and buffalo wings. When I arrived at the bar and grill, the bouncer questioned my obviously bogus license. All I wanted to say was, "Dude, this is Madison. I just want a flippin' beer." Instead, Nathan calmly emerged proclaiming, "This is my girlfriend. She's twenty-four." (I was twenty.) The bouncer didn't bite. In a time of desperation, Nathan pleaded, "Come on, guy. Would someone any younger wear this grandma sweater?"

I got in. No joke.

I'm not gonna lie, the sweater diss stung for a sec. Again, the importance of reframing:

1.) He never mentioned the sweater again. Never has. I still wear it.

2.) He's willing to do what it takes, within reason, to get what he wants.

3.) He's convincing, persuasive, and assertive. Yum.

It felt good to know I had such a catch. It also felt good to know that we pulled a fast one on the bouncer that night. A rebel without a cause. Drinkin' in a bar underage like 30,000 other college kids in Madison. With my very of age Bad Boy who just sweet-talked me in. I was lovable, even in a Mom Sweater.

2.) Loving

I can remember I wanted to join a sorority so I could still go to formals. I saw college as a blank slate in formals. High school ones were anything but memorable. Let's quickly recap:

1.) Homecoming 1994 - boy I liked.

2.) Turnabout 1995 - boy who told me "maybe, because if someone, I dunno, better asks me..." and two days later, reluctantly, "yes."

3.) Homecoming 1995 - older brother's friend a week before the dance because no one had asked me. By the way, the friend is literally a rocket scientist now. No joke.

4.) Turnabout 1996 - some guy I thought could be cute if he wasn't a nerd from the mens' swim team with my eyes squinted. Who later called me and said, "I'm looking for a gorgeous girl to go out with this Saturday. Know any?" Sick. Okay, could NOT be cute, eyes squinted or not. I did what most fifteen-year-old girls would do. Told him I had to babysit and a few days later, in the hallway at school, passed him a note saying I had a boyfriend from another school. Little white lie.

5.) Homecoming 1996 - This one is the best. AND it's when I was fat which makes it even better. Older brother's friend's foreign exchange student from Columbia, South America. I am not kidding. He asked me four days before. He spoke very little English. Cute, though, in a Fez kind of way.

6.) Turnabout 1997 - Oh, wait. THIS may be the best. I wasn't fat anymore, though, so not quite as funny. My guy friend from the school musicals. Enough said.

7.) Homecoming 1997 - This one is pretty good, too. I asked someone. A week out. My mom was friends with his mom. He sat at the lunch table next to mine. He paid, so it turned out to be a good deal.

8.) Turnabout 1998 - I finally had a real, live boyfriend, but he couldn't go. So I didn't go either.

9.) Prom 1998 - Still had the boyfriend, but he couldn't go again. He was a jock and had a baseball game, but fuck it, it was prom and I was going! A couple weeks before, my other guy friend from musicals came to my locker with his hands in his pockets. I said yes. Not the same kind of musical guy. This one was the cool guy from band I used to smoke cigarettes with behind the dumpsters during rehearsals. We had fun.

Overall, wouldn't you want a second chance in the formal circuit? A second chance with the new and improved Maggie-with-a-Boyfriend? Formals, according to all teen movies, were supposed to be elegant, romantic, dreamy. And sorority formals would do.

And they did. I won't bore you with the good ones; where would the fun be in that? Instead, I will excite you with a funny one.

Senior year as an Alpha Chi Omega. Winter Formal, 2000. No one was going, but you bet I wasn't missing it. Went with two other couples we rolled with. It was in Milwaukee. Not too exciting. We were the oldest group there, lots of new members (aka pledges).

I hussied it up that night in a clingy, low-cut chocolate and gold little number. Nathan loved it. Think J-Lo (in my dreams). He himself was looking hot in his suit, a huge change from his baggy cargos and beard.

I hate to admit that formals lose their luster the older you get. But I will. So, Nathan and I got bored. So we needed something to do. Before we knew it, we were in a stall in the mens' room. TOTALLY serious this time. This formal, unlike the ones in all the teenie movies was trashy, seedy, and kind of a nightmare!

I sat on the toilet, surprisingly too into this to worry about all the germs. He loosened his belt. Dropped his drawls. And I went about my business. And by my business, I mean blowing him.

But not for long. As with any good story, something went awry! We heard the door swing open. We mimed to one another in the locked stall, "What do we do?" The Intruder shuffled about, gave a fake so-you-know-I'm-in-here cough, and left. Pulled up his pants, fixed my lipstick, and casually exited. As we giggled into the lobby, there she was. Big, black, and pissed. "I done know what you did in there," she scolded. "I done know what you did," The Intruder declared.

Busted! It still makes us laugh. I hope you learn two things here:

1.) B.J.s are not just for birthdays and anniversaries.

2.) Breaking the rules with my Bad Boy made me feel...daring, and in some odd way, loving.

3.) Loved

I remember being embarrassed, but not caring. Sometimes, it's important to reframe. Sure, I got busted while demonstrating my insatiable love for my boy-toy...but what a great story! You can never have enough good stories to tell. Especially funny ones.

And mushy ones. My favorite mushy one has to begin with an explanation. One of Nathan's most charming quirks is that he likes to stop random people where ever we are to say, "Excuse me. Doesn't she look beautful tonight?" or "Isn't she pretty?" I, humbly, of course, always shoo him away and roll my eyes...with a secret grin. Of confidence. There are much worse things that a boy could do other than insist that strangers agree that I am attractive.

That night of that Winter Formal, he used this charming quirk. Relentlessly. (I told you he loved my dress.) Nathan went so far as suggesting to such bothered strangers that I looked ready for the Academy Awards. Looking back, like literally in pictures, I've looked better. The dress was cheap. The jewelry was even cheaper. The shoes were all wrong. I tried some new make-up...never a good idea without a test run. Despite my fashion faux paus, Nathan could not get enough of me. He seemed very proud to have me on his arm. Proud, and still bored, which, we've discussed, comes with going to too many formals.

But, alas! He had a plan, inspired, in part, I'm sure, by Captain Morgan. Another party. A bunch of middle-aged folks were having some kind of winding down celebration, conveniently across the hall from the mens' room, aka our love nest. Nathan took my hand and led me toward its doors. I resisted. Why?

1.) Kind of involuntary reaction. I'm so used to Nathan wanting to do things I regularly wouldn't, I pulled back.

2.) It wasn't our party! We were not invited! That would be breaking a rule!

3.) And I knew he wouldn't be inconspicuous. He'd been asking people left and right if I was pretty. And Nathan's never shy on any dancing floor. He's my Dancing Queen.

And yet, I found myself swaying to songs in seconds. Swept away by those damn dimples and twinkling eyes. As I muttered, "What the hell, Nathan, this isn't our party!" he calmly reminded me, "No one cares. They're all drunk. Just relax!" And we danced. The old fashioned way. My hand across his upper back, his embracing my lower, holding hands while the sweet sounds of "Georgia on my Mind" surrounded us. I suggested it as our wedding song. He remembered the night, not the song. Typical man. Leave it to us women to know the details! (Our wedding song, by the way, was "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd. Random, huh?)

Back to my point. I am a lucky woman. I am lovable, even in Mom Sweater. I am loving, and by loving, I mean sexully explicit in mens' rooms. Above all, I am loved, and apparently, quite pretty. Again, I beg of you, Unknown Reader, do not dismiss seemingly insignificant male gestures as such.

I am not sure if I'd fully recognize my lovability, lovingness, and lovedness without breaking some rules. Part of love is keeping things new. Making memories. Sharing stories. And even though mushy stories are good, funny ones are the best. And funny things happen when you live a little. Lick a little. And laugh...A LOT!!!

Lesson 10: Add a Dash of Bad Boy

Call it a cliche. I don't care. There is just something to be said about Bad Boys. Something appealing. Something refreshing. Something so not predictable, practical, or punctual as me. And Nathan is a little bit Bad Boy. Complete with a skull tattoo across his left shoulder from his Navy days. Has been known to get slightly aggressive when consuming adult beverages. Teeters on the fine line between cocky and confident.

Bring it on!

In truth, Nathan is half a teaspoon Bad Boy. Just has a sprinkling. I feel it necessary to clarify in case my apparent wisdom insinuates that Bad Boys can be tamed. Not so much. Nathan is primarily good-natured, genuinely charming, and quick-witted. All that with an edge. The difference in Bad Boy and being sprinkled with Bad Boy is the difference between seductive and sexy. With one, you feel like you're probably being played. With the other, you feel alive. And Nathan makes me feel alive. At least three, maybe four times, a week.

So I guess this dash of Bad Boy drew me to him in some unconscious way. If opposites attract, it MUST be on "bad" behaviors. While it has improved in recent years, I'd best be qualified as a goody-two-shoes. In fifth, grade, if I got hit in dodgeball (and that was not uncommon) but no one saw, I still went to jail. In high school, I told on cheaters. At my graduation party from college, when I caught my eighteen-year-old sister trying to stash some beer, I told her to put it back. I'm sprinkled with a little Stick In The Mud.

I believe I am primarily good-natured, genuinely charming, and quick-witted. And organized, obsessed, and overwhelmed.

RELATED TANGENT: Please note all the "o's" in my life. It's odd. (There's another!) My last name is Omick now. And I'm moving to Oconomowoc. Five o's in that alone.

Anyhoo, at the risk of sounding like a suggestable, subordinate wife, I must admit that Nathan helps me feel calmer. Down from a nine to a six on the Weird Maggie Scale. Sometimes I think about that: what is so bad about relying on your husband to calm you down? In this day and age, all this pop culture mumbo jumbo barks about maintaining your individuality. Your identity. Your inner self. THROW UP! Half of couples get divorced in this country. My theory: maybe if couples focused on maintaining and nurturing their lives as a couple, more people would stay married. I truly think Nathan and I have a good balance. Let me outline it for you:

1.) There are things Nathan does without me, i.e ice fishing, poker with the boys.

2.) There are things I do without Nathan, i.e trips downtown Chicago to visit my college friends, go to Starbucks.

3.) There are things we do together, i.e. go to the movies, play Boggle -- don't knock it 'til you try it!

We openly discuss our marriage. So far, it appears the simple act of the acknowledgement of the marriage proves effective.

Enough of that. So, we've got a goody-two-shoes and a Bad Boy. Who loves to dance. What is this, "Footloose"? A tale for the ages. But our tale is way better. Highlights of our journey include a hand-knit sweater, a big old black woman, and Ray Charles. Not all at once.

Lesson 9: The Ring Matters

I know you were probably expecting a conclusion to My Day in the last blog. Believe me, so was I . I promise, this will be then end of the saga of My Day. THE day. The day I knew was coming. Then we can move onto more fun things.

I knew I could not just wear any old thing on My Day. More importantly, I knew I couldn't possibly find it in the QCA. I ventured home to Arlington Heights and felt at home at Ann Taylor Loft, my absolute favorite shop for a number of reasons:

1.) They have such cute, classic things.

2.) You can score pretty good sales there.

3.) Their sizes run big, so I was a six there. What more could I want?

I spent an hour or so determining which dress was THE dress. I wanted something preppy. Something with clean lines. Something that screamed, "This is the type of woman you are asking to marry you. She's sweet. She's chic. She's clever. And she sure is beautiful." Like a beacon in the night, it shined upon the abyss of unworthy options. A little black cotton knee-length fitted dress. Speckled with pink and red flowers, complete with a charming little bow in the front. Add some black slide sandals and I was stylin'. It made me look youthful, yet mature. It made me look thin, yet curvy. It made me feel lucky and in love.

Now, before I continue, you must understand something. My parents had no clue that Nathan and I had spent nearly every night together in the same bed since we first got "together" in June 2000. I practically LIVED at his frat house. So it should not be surprising that he answered the phone that Saturday morning, the morning of My Day. My godmother was visiting my parents from Jersey that weekend back in Illinois, and MAYBE I had mentioned that I thought I was going to get engaged that day. And MAYBE my mom mentioned something to my godmother that I thought I was going to get engaged that day. And MAYBE I almost died when Nathan groggily answered the ringing phone that morning. Luckily, it was my godmother on the line. My godmother who has four grown and married daughters who knows how these things work. As I just about yaked, he handed me the phone. Remember, he didn't know that I knew it was My Day. I placed the phone to my ear and my godmother calmly said, "I know you have company. I just wanted to say I hope you have a wonderful day." I said thanks and felt relieved at how calm she was about me having a boy, which she politely referred to as "company," at my house at 7:30 in the morning. She must have settled down my mom, because when I talked to her, she didn't even mention him being there. Looking back, I bet she was just too fired up about planning a wedding to worry about the obvious premarital affairs/mortal sins of her eldest daughter.

I went to my first class that day. The LONGEST three hours of my life. Jittery. Fluttering. Bubbling. Skipped my second class. Got home to my very first apartment at about noon. Nathan was getting things in order to go. He had me iron a button-down shirt. (Ah ha!) As he kind of packed, he casually asked, "Do you still want to go? We don't have to if you don't feel like it." Tried to throw me off, the dirty jerk! I admit, it did take me aback for about a minute. For a split second, I thought, "Damn. Let down again. And this time, I even bought a dress." When I explained that of course I still wanted to go, he was all, "Okay. Just checking." We loaded up the car. Drove up Interstate 151 through Dubuque and into Madison. Gorgeous drive. Though trees and bluffs. My Day was a clear and crisp, sunny April day. Nathan did not seem any different. Not nervous. Not excited. Not nothing. Just his normal laid back self. Crackin' jokes. Singing along to songs. Holding my hand.

We arrived in Madison. Checked into the hotel. He then realized he not only forgot his shirt, but also the shoes he was going to wear. First new hint that suggested he was nervous about something. He started freaking out a little, which is out of character for him. I found myself telling him not to worry and to have no fear, The Gap was near. When in a pinch, just go to your nearest Gap. Off we went. Selected a blue oxford striped shirt and a pair of cute flip flops. Spent the rest of the afternoon strolling State Street. Felt like undergrads all over again. After a bit, we headed back to the hotel to freshen up for dinner. Nathan had one of my girlfriends call The Tornado Room to make reservations for two in a "private area" of the restaurant. As mentioned previously, for Nathan to make reservations was a BIG deal. Even bigger since it was at a chic steakhouse.

We got to the restaurant. Nathan seemed flustered. We were seated at a table near the kitchen...not very private, huh? His eyes kept wandering, darting around, checking out other tables, muttering, "This isn't going to work. This isn't going to work at all." And I was like, dude, relax. The server emerged in the midst of his mini panic attack. I swear, before she finished her spiel, he ordered a vodka gimlet. Right off the bat. Second new hint that suggested he was nervous about something. Pretty much the whole time, he did not really pay all that much attention to me and seemed rather preoccupied with the fact that for whatever reason, our table was definitely not going to work. By this point, I was 99.9% sure this was My Day. Therefore, I was 99.9% sure that he was shitting his pants. I found myself trying to settle him down. I convinced him to relax, enjoy the food and drinks, and that we would go for a nice walk to Menona Terrace, a kind of huge patio that overlooks Lake Menona, after dinner. He obliged.

The server returned. He ordered the special. THE SPECIAL! This from a man who doesn't like to go to Chili's because it's too expensive. I got prime rib. Hmmm...forgotten clothes, booze off the bat, THE SPECIAL?!? Now I was 100% sure this was My Day. We got our food. He attempted to delve into his hunk of tenderloin with a spoon. No joke. He barely noticed until I said, "Nathan, you're using a spoon." He kind of looked at the spoon and giggled, visibly anxious. Then we exchanged giggles across the table. When we finished eating, he grabbed both of my hands and launched his first attempt at a proposal.

"How long have we been together?" he inquired.

"Almost three years," I coyly replied.

"Three years. That's a long time," he continued.

"Yep, it is," I begged. Wondering what was next. A sonnet? Haiku? A simple list of all the reasons he loved me? Or none of the above.

"This isn't going to work!" he abruptly fretted.

I made the executive decision that we needed to get the heck out of there. ASAP. I told him to relax again and that we'd get our bill and go to Menona Terrace. And we did.

It evidently was not his plan to pop the question there, at Menona Terrace. It worked out well, though. Menona Terrace was kind of special to us, even if he didn't initially realize it. Long story short (don't worry, the long story will be told later), I was really sick the summer before my senior year in college. He had been in Canada fishing with his fam the week I had been hospitalized. When he finally got home, we walked to Menona Terrace and I brought him up to speed on all the crap that had been going on. It felt right to have the engagement happen there.

It's amazing how many details I can remember about some of the stupidest memories in my life. Go figure a lot of parts from the next fifteen minutes or so are kind of a blur. I'll do the best I can.

It was early in the evening. Still light out, but could just start to feel the cool of dusk. An available iron rod table sat at the front of the patio with two chairs. He sat on my right. He took my hands again like he did at the restaurant. Launched the same pitch. How long have we been together, that's a long time, yata yata. For the life of me, I wish I could remember exactly what he said. I know that he said something about how he used to think we had to be together for a certain amount of time for it to be right and how he was more or less scared to jump into it, but then how more recently, he was more scared of losing me and never wanted to. Again, like a scene out of a romantic comedy, he got down on one knee. Reached into his pocket. Pulled out a little gray box. I can't believe I wasn't more...nervous or explosive or overwhelmed. I just wasn't. I was eager and serene and ready. Maybe that was a good thing.

When the box opened, it was everything I ever didn't want and more.

1.) The band was gold. I don't wear gold. He knew that.

2.) Even worse, it was lacy gold. Like what was cool in maybe 1983.

3.) Yet even worse (oh yes, it can get worse), the stone was oval. I have nothing against ovals. I just really, really, really wanted a square, princess cut diamond. He knew that, too.

A word on rings before I continue. When I first started bugging Nathan about getting engaged, I maintained that I did not care about the ring. That he could get me just a band. Just a small stone. Just something. I didn't care. I wanted him, not the ring. He never believed me. Well, based on the face I allegedly made when given this anti-Maggie engagement ring, deep down, I cared about the ring. A lot.

So, what's a girl to do when the man of your dreams gives you a horrible ring? Fake it. Or try to. I took the ring out of the box. Slipped it on my finger. Held it up in the sunlight to check if maybe it looked prettier when it sparkled. It didn't. I was just baffled. Mortified. Panicked. He could have been talking all through those first few seconds of disgust. I don't remember. I was worried about showing the hideous ring to my girlfriends. What was I going to do? What I always do. Talk before I think.

"Is this a joke?" I pleaded.

The gigantic smile on his face immediately faded into a concerned grimace and he whined, "You don't like it?"

SHIT! I thought it wasn't a joke. The ugly ring would remain on my finger until the day I died. Making my man hands even uglier than they already were. SHIT! He actually picked this out.

He continued and explained, "I know it's know what you wanted. But I got a great deal on it. You really don't like it???"

SHIT! "No, it's great," I lied through my teeth. I could have vomited. Preferably on the ugly ring so the acid from my stomach somehow would ruin the diamond so we'd have to get a new one. SHIT!

Then it hit me. His concerned grimace transformed into giggles. He laughed and laughed. Squished face. Hand on his belly. The whole bit. I was so confused. Had he gotten my goat? Was he so freaked out that he was having a breakdown about getting engaged? Or maybe I missed The Lip Thing that covered his his facetious plot. Passed his stiff wiggles off as engagement jitters.

"That's not the ring," he laughed.

He explained that he knew I was totally full of it whenever I would talk about how the ring didn't matter. He knew I wanted a nice ring. He was no fool. He told me how he and his friend, K.G., when to K-Mart that week to pick out the ugliest ring they could find to trick me. I can just imagine those two ass clowns laughing it up at K-Mart, choosing the most convincingly gross cubic zirconium at the jewelry counter. The whole time he told this drawn out story, he held the white suede box with the real ring in it. About twenty words into his explanation, I pointed to the box, hinting to him to shut the F up and give me the real ring. Nathan was so wrapped up in his hilarious prank and how well it played out, he failed to notice my excitement about the real ring. FINALLY, he kind of went, "Oh!" and got back down on one knee.

"Will you marry me?"

You bet! He was so proud of the real ring. When the box opened, it held the most exquisite ring I had ever seen. More than exquisite, it was just plain perfect. (Please refer to "Lesson 7: Offer Him a Quasi-Ultimatum" for details.)

As we walked down the street and back to the hotel for a celebratory cocktail, I announced to everyone we passed that we just got engaged, holding up our interlaced hands. At the hotel bar, we had the bartender take a picture of us. It's in our engagement scrapbook. I love it. We're holding hands so the ring shows. I look like a little kid on Christmas morning. He looks like a deer in headlights.

Now, I of course realized how big of a deal this was for him and how he was probably a bit beguiled. During the conversation in my head with my imaginary wedding planner, I decided it was not the appropriate time to discuss such planning matters and decided instead to just enjoy the moment. But alas, Nathan jumped the gun and asked when we would get hitched and added the sooner the better. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. The man who wanted to wait five years to get engaged all of the sudden wanted to get married in a snap. When I asked him when he would like to, he replied, "Next Tuesday." Point being, as soon as we could. That's kind of how he is. Once Nathan makes up his mind, he rolls with it. Full speed ahead.

We headed up to the room. Called everyone. Family. Friends. Turns out all my friends knew it was coming. After we touched base with all the essentials, we did what any Badgers would do: went out and got blasted and had a blast doing it. Separated at one point of the night, which was totally my drunk fault. Holly had made it crystal clear to Nathan that we needed to stay together the whole night. Well, I wanted to go to a bar I spent a lot of time at in college, the beloved Kollege Klub, to show off my ring to all my sorority sisters who were still in undergrad. Nathan didn't like going there when we were in school, so in my intoxicated and ecstatic mind, it seemed like a good deal to separate for a bit and meet up again. I don't think he had too much say in the matter. Went there. Showed it off. Met back at a bar. Then to his frat. Then back to our hotel to make sweet engaged love...yeah, right! That's the best part of the story. We were so tired, excited, and over-served, we didn't even do it. Ha!

My Day was great. One of a kind. And Nathan didn't twinkle that day. He shined.

Lesson 8: Be an Intuitive Detective

So, where was I? Oh, still working on the engagement. My Day, if you will.

Apparently, the quasi-ultimatum worked. In January 2003, I guess Nathan dropped the bomb to our friends that he was ready to pop the question. So much for the five year theory, huh?

I'm not gonna lie, as we drove from Davenport to Iowa that April 26th, I was ninety-nine percent sure it was My Day. Starting in about early March 2003, I began noticing some bonafide hints. (Please remember that by this time, I had been let down by my evidently imaginary expectations/premonitions/hopes of getting engaged quite a few times.) But by now, I was more...experienced. Rational. And above all, intuitive. Add a bit of sleuth and that's how I was ninety-nine percent sure. Back to those bonafide hints. Let's bust out a list:

1.) One night, we were canoodling on my futon bed in the bedroom of my very first apartment. Talking. Snuggling. Laughing. Like a scene from a romantic comedy. (By the way, I love romantic comedies. "While You Were Sleeping." "My Best Friend's Wedding." "Sweet Home Alabama." Good times.) Anyhoo, at one point, we were holding hands. He lifted up our interlocked paws, separated them, and kind of started examining my pacifier -- oh! I mean promise ring. Said something kinda lame and out of character like, "That's a pretty ring, isn't it?" And I was thinking, "Uh, yeah. I've only had it for over a year. Now all of the sudden you comment on its aesthetics out of nowhere?!?" But of course, I chose to respond with a more detective-like, "Yeah, I really love it" while dying to respond with a more sassy, "Yeah, I wish it was a real ring for this finger." He proceeded to ask me to remove it, placed it on his finger, and examined it. Obviously to determine my ring size. Flutter, flutter. My tummy dropped. I knew something was up. Too interested, too cheesy, too much for Nathan.

He could have been more slick, but you can't blame the guy. He could've gone through my jewelry box to find another ring. He could've slipped the pacifier -- I mean, promise ring -- off while I slept. Or, scratch that and just ask to try it on because THAT'S not suspicious. Hint #1.

2.) Hint #2 was pure intuition. Toward the end of March, my parents and little brother planned a visit to us in Iowa on a Sunday. To go to brunch. To shop at Target. Nothing crazy. In my warped mind, and based on what I perceived as Hint #1, this would be the perfect opportunity for Nathan to ask my dad for my hand in marriage...sigh. And he did when we were through stuffing our faces with buffet food. My mom and I went to powder our noses/pee while my dad, bro, and boy toy ventured toward the outside car. Legend has it that within those few minutes, Nathan quickly grabbed my dad and hurriedly said, "Before they come outta there, I need to ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage!" My dad briskly whacked Nathan's hand away and matter-of-factly replied, "She's too young." Not really, but wouldn't that have been dramatic?!? My dad acquiesced his request and added that Nathan didn't even need to ask, that they'd be lucky to have him in the family, blah, blah, blah. And just like in the movies, (a good romantic comedy, of course) my mom and I emerged just after an important piece of the plot was revealed.

So my dad knew. My brother knew. I thought I knew. My mom wasn't allowed to know because Nathan worried she'd let the diamond cat out of the bag. Hint #2.

3.) Nathan knew a guy who knew a guy who knew about diamonds. One of those deals. The Diamond Guy was in the jewelry business before he started chiropractic school with Nathan. He knew a guy who knew a guy who shared ownership in DeBeers. The Diamond Guy could somehow get the goods for cost from some DeBeers guy. Straight from Israel, as Nathan still proudly proclaims. Amazingly and beyond my knowledge, Nathan was in cahoots with our mutual friend, Holly. Her mission: extract diamond cut preference from me. Holly and I talked about rings all the time, like most twenty-somethings in serious relationships would. So she had an idea going into it, but Nathan demanded specifics. Nathan knew I liked white gold -- or platinum if he won the lottery. He knew I preferred a carat and also that I'd understand if it was significantly smaller if he ever proposed while we were still poor students living on loans...with the understanding as long as I was promised an upgrade within ten years or so. Essentially, he designed the ring. Princess cut, D color (he's VERY proud of that), .65 carat center stone with trillion cut side stones, .3 carats each. That's 1.25 total weight, ladies. Let me tell you, I did NOT expect that from my boyfriend who didn't really like spending money on gifts and was eating Ramen Noodles at least three times a week for dinner.

I'm off track, surprise, surprise. I'll bring us back. I knew, sort of, who the Diamond Guy was. Even though Nathan and I had separate places until July 2003 (sorry, Mom and Dad, the truth hurts...yes, we co-habitated before marriage), he was at my very first apartment a lot. So much so, people, including the Diamond Guy, would call for him there. I got home from work one day. Saw the red light flash on the answering machine. Pressed it. Listened. "Uh, hi, Nathan. This is Diamond Guy. I have those biochemistry notes, so you can pick them up whenever." Detective Maggie recognizes a code anywhere. Biochemistry notes, my ass! Diamond Guy had MY RING. Which meant My Day really was on it's way. Hint #3.

Okay, so that might have been a bit exaggerated. Let me explain. I thought Nathan had finished biochemistry the previous trimester in school. Thought I was so smooth for breaking his oh-so not clever code. What did he think? That I really thought he needed those notes? That I didn't know his schedule? Well, turns out I didn't! Turns out it didn't matter. My mistaken interpretation was in reality, correct. The ring was ready. And I was sure it was twinkly. He was trying so hard to make it a surprise. And then came the straw that broke the camel's mother fuckin' back.

4.) Nathan planned a Saturday trip to Madison in April for us. Conspicuous for a number of reasons:

A. Nathan is anything but a planner. He likes to keep his options open in case something better comes along. HE asked ME, the definition of a planner, if I wanted to go to Madison on April 26, 2003. I said yep. And that I'd even skip my afternoon class. Those words came out of my excited mouth involuntarily. I'm NOT a class skipper. As soon as I heard he'd planned this mini-trip, I was ninety-seven percent sure it was going to be My Day.

B. When I asked where we would stay, he answered, and I quote, "Anywhere you want. We can eat where you want. Stay where you want. This is your weekend." Well, hot damn. I was right. Such a response was even more conspicuous than the mini-trip plan. Why? (This is the most extensive and involved list yet. I didn't even see it coming. What joy!)

i. Anytime we visited Madison after college, we usually crashed on couches in his old frat house.

ii. Nathan does not like to go out to eat. Takes too long. Too expensive. HUGE Hint #4.

I knew there was only one thing I could do.

Go shopping.

Lesson 7: Offer Him a Quasi-Ultimatum

As I was saying, My Day came on April 26, 2003. After a long journey. Remember my obsession with getting engaged? Well, I'd say that began in December 2002. From then until my graduation from college, every other word out of my mouth had something to do with it. Marriage. Ring. Wedding. Soon. Now. Want. Bad.

And Nathan knew. In our college days, he was kind of nonchalant about it. Fed the flames by listing me as his fiance at the dentist because I was "close enough," and by saying "you'd be surprised" in response to my pseudo-snide remarks on the lengthy time I'd have to wait until he'd propose.

In our Iowa days, he got a little more...annoyed. Defensive. Hesitant, or more accurately, not rushed. Don't get me wrong. Let's clarify:

1.) I'm sure you're thinking, "Jeez, she was desperate." Really not. I'm so self-aware, huh? (By the way, I think self-awareness is one of the the most, if not THE most, important attributes a person can have.) Back to not being desperate. I knew I wasn't. Being in love with Nathan, Nathan being in love with me, being in love together gave me confidence in myself, men, and relationships. I knew he felt the same -- except for the men part! I knew he'd come around. I knew if he didn't come around, someone else would. I'm a catch after all.

2.) I knew Nathan's story. When we met, he knew I'd fulfil his every hope and dream he'd ever had for a relationship/girlfriend/wife. He also wished I would've shown up just a little later. Too bad, buddy. His heart and head just had to catch up with each other.

3.) For some reason, he had "five years" etched into his brain as the sufficient, minimal, and appropriate amount of time to be with me/anyone before he proposed. Evidently, he thought that's how long it really took to get to know someone. Puh-lease. More like how long it really took to come to terms with the fact that I would be the last woman he would ever be with. Tough pill to swallow for a sailor.

4.) He wanted to finish school. Move to Wisconsin. Start working with his dad. Get engaged. Get married. You can imagine what I thought about that timeline.

Now, perhaps you're recalling my statement about moving to Iowa (CRINGE!) without a rock. Obviously, that changed. After graduation, I moved back home (DOUBLE CRINGE!). Nathan and I had been long distance for five months and it sucked ass. My first plan was to live at home and go to school for my Masters in Early Childhood Education. Fell through. Not important. Then, I was going to move to the QCA (the Quad City Area as the locals call it) and get the same degree at Western Illinois University. Sent in my transcripts to see how long it'd take. Got a letter back saying four years full-time. Scratched that, too.

So I got a job as a medical receptionist in my hometown for $11/hour...every parent's dream after forking out 20K a year for college...and started sending resumes to places in the QCA. Now that's when I was desperate. Looking back, I sent resumes not only to places I'd never want to work, but also places where a dancing dog would be more qualified. Out of about fifty resumes, not one employer contacted me. I HATED my job as a medical receptionist. Stupid hours. Stupid sick people. Stupid co-workers who spoke foreign languages around me and would laugh and look at me. After six weeks of that hell and six months of "when are you moving here's" from my boy toy, I up and quit. Yep. Called. Cried. Quit. After tons of soul searching and reflection on the fact that:

1.) The U.S. was in a recession and was not doing much hiring.

2.) Every option I'd thus explored slapped me in the face.

3.) I was in love with the man made for me (minus the chest hair...wouldn't have requested that on my made-to-order man)...

I realized I needed to move. And I did. Decided I was going to save the world as a social worker and enrolled at St. Ambrose University in Davenport, Iowa. Quite a change form my Big Ten life. I didn't care. I needed to go. My mom and dad were less than thrilled with both the career and location choice. (They have since recanted and are proud and supportive).

So, we're not even close to April 26, 2003. Just a warning.

So, where does this whole quasi-ultimatum bit fit in? Well...

I moved. Scared shitless and eagerly excited. Started school. Got a job. All was well.

Still obsessed. I moved to Iowa on one condition -- that I'd only move this once to a new state without a real ring. But, I would not move to Wisconsin after graduate school without one. A Chicago girl like me doesn't move Up North without a rock. Period.

Lesson 6: Don't Mistake a Pacifier for a Preview

For as long as I can remember, I couldn't wait to get married. It seemed so appealing. Comfort. Stability. Companionship. All that jazz. Someone who loved you. And not like your parents who pretty much have to love you. Someone who was drawn to you, someone who chose you, someone who loved YOU. Now, I could bore you with my stories of high school strife, how I was told by the boy of my dreams/secret best friend, who I screwed around with in the back seat of his Suburban in the cemetery by my house, that I wasn't cool enough to go out with, or how I was repeatedly crushed by crushes, or how I was "too much to handle" according to my mom. But that is not the point. The point is MY man, the one who chose ME.

After dating...

RELATED TANGENT: People our age don't really date, do they? I mean, I was so shocked when Nathan actually asked me out on a date when he did. In college, people just kind of get drunk, hook up, and take it from there. That's fair to say, right? I guess there isn't really an appropriate term. We weren't really going out either. We didn't go anywhere. And that just sounds like third grade when Sally asks you if you like Mikey and you say yes and then she tells Mikey that you like him and he says he likes you back too so then you are going out. People for sure don't go steady anymore either. Nowadays, people are just "together." Works for me.

Anyhoo, after we were TOGETHER for six months, Nathan invited me to spend New Year's with him and his dad's side of the family in West Bend, Iowa. This involved a six hour drive with my one-day-to-be-in-laws, including his chatty seven-year-old sister in a Lincoln Towncar to a little farming town of about 500 people. I'm not gonna lie...I was ecstatic! Of course, it wasn't going to be the flashiest of events, but I could have cared less. I was just tickled he asked me and determined that it meant a few things:

1.) He couldn't bear to be without me for too long over Winter Break.

2.) He wanted me to get to know his family better.

3.) He wanted to show me off.

I went. It was fun. His family is great. Real good people. A thought on people from Iowa. I tell ya, during my years at UW, I thought people from Wisconsin were just about the nicest you'd run into in the U.S. of A. I was wrong. People from Iowa are so friendly; they guy at the grocery store check-out asks what your plans are for the weekend, the worker at KFC smiles the smile of Mother Teresa, and, following suit, his family just makes you feel welcome, included and part of the gang.

The best part of this trip occurred in a dim lit room at the local country club. (Yes, small towns do have a country club). The story went like this. His mom and dad and I were sitting at a table off to the side. The disco ball turned. The lights were turned down. Jams in the background. We were all a little over-served. We got on the topic of how Nathan and I didn't go to the bars as much anymore and he continued and expanded on the fact that there was no need for men to go out once they were in a serious relationship. Why? Isn't it obvious? They don't need to find some hot babe to get laid when they have their own right next to them that doesn't require too much boozing and schmoozing to score with. He dad nodded in agreement. His mom and I just kind of laughed and rolled our eyes. Yata yata yata, a bunch more talk, and I couldn't even tell you the context of the conversation, but all of the sudden, Nathan proclaimed that we were, and I quote, "Set in stone." His mom kind of raised her eyebrows...not so sure she knows I saw that...and his dad bluntly started jabbering that we had only been "together" six months and things change and we were still young and all this bummer stuff. It didn't matter. We weren't phased by the parental buzz kills. All I knew is that Nathan thought we were set in stone. I knew he loved me. He dropped the L-bomb in September. For some reason, being set in stone meant more. Think of how many people say "I love you" and they don't even realize they don't. I dropped the L-bomb all the time with the at-the-time-boyfriend. Turns out I really didn't love him. Nathan dropped the L-bomb, too. (I am sure they were all hideous beasts.) He didn't love them either. When you say those words and you really, truly, honestly believe it, it just feels different. Add some stone to that, and then you're really feelin' good! To make the night even more lame, we danced to Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" after that discussion.

That was when I knew he was it. He was the man who would be lucky enough to marry me.

As fate would have it (Nathan doesn't believe in fate...he is so dull and logical sometimes) we spent our one-year anniversary at a wedding. As our second Christmas "together" approached, we knew the time would soon arrive when he had to move to start chiropractic school in Davenport, Iowa. I was okay with it. I mean, sure I was sad. Mainly pissed that I was going to have to actually stay the house my parents paid rent for with nine other college girls (THAT my friends, could be a whole 'nother blog). Pissed that I wouldn't have sex as much. Pissed that we were going to be so far away. Truth, I was confident that we would be fine. I semi-planned to move there sooner or later only if I had a ring. I knew distance would be hard, but knowing we were set in stone make it simpler.

I knew his second Christmas gift would be good. For our first Christmas "together," which was right before he proclaimed the geological strength of our love, he gave me diamond earrings. What a gem. Him, and the diamonds, I suppose. For my birthday the following June, he took me to a...how would you say, fantasy hotel, for the night. So, on that second Christmas, we spent the day at his aunt's house. At night, we went back to his parents' place. (I spent a few days at his parents' over Winter Break.) He started a fire in the fireplace. Sat on a chair. I gave him my gift, a year's subscription to the Packer Report. (Do I know my man or what?) I was sitting on his lap. He reached into his book bag (still in college...when you brought a book bag everywhere), and pulled out a little box, about two by two, with a big bow on it. For a second, I thought this was IT. Shivers of happiness warmed my bod. As the joy ran rampant, it came to a screeching halt. "It's not what you think." Way to kill the mood, Asshole. It was close to what I thought. A promise ring. My second one. I had one from the at-the-time-boyfriend. (I really need to pawn that thing!) But this one came with an explanation. He put it on my hand and said, "I know you are worried about me leaving. This is just to show you I love you and always will..." something to that effect, at least. I was thrilled. I still wear it. On my right hand.

That was the first time I thought maybe he was going to do it. Propose, that is. There were a few more. Each time, I was convinced it was the perfect time. Sometimes because it would not seem obvious. Visits to Davenport, or while watching Conan, or while in the bathroom. Sometimes just because I had a "feeling." (Just like I used to get "feelings" that I was going to win the lottery in college, so I'd buy a ticket.) Yeah, those "feelings" have not proved to be accurate.

After the promise ring incident, I was totally preoccupied with getting engaged. It's all I could think about. I figured I was so close since he already gave me one ring. I now know that promise rings kind of give the guy a window of delay. It means "I want to marry you, just not now. I am SO not ready to get married, but I love you." They actually kind of suck if you really think about it. I shouldn't have been so excited. I thought it was a preview. Turns out their like pacifiers. Give it to 'em to shut 'em up for a while.

My Day was April 26, 2003. And I KNEW it was coming. And it's a GREAT story.

Lesson 5: Let Him Love You for Who You Are

I'm not shy about my obsession with food. I love food. All kinds. Especially meat, cheese, and bread. In fact, just about the only things I don't like are seafood and raw tomatoes. I eat throughout the day. I start with hazelnut coffee (strong) with one cube of sugar and hazelnut creamer. Just enough to cover the cube in the cup. This is typically paired with a glass of juice (real juice, none of that high fructose corn syrup crap), two slices of high fiber wheat toast, three egg whites, and a multivitamin. On mornings that I am a bit lazy, just a whole wheat bagel with light veggie cream cheese. Lunch is never lunch. I bring four snacks in my pink thermal lunch box to my job and internship. It usually consists of one veggie, one fruit, one dairy, and something more substantial...you know, like a granola bar or peanut butter and jelly sambo. I've recently started bringing nuts for more protein.

I watch what I eat. I work out four or five days a week for about an hour in the morning. First thing I do. Get it out of the way. I don't necessarily pay as much attention to what we eat for dinner. I do make a conscious effort to include protein, carbs, and a veggie. And by the way, yes, I said I make a conscious effort to include carbs. All in all, I bet it sounds like a pretty balanced diet and healthy lifestyle.

You don't even know.

My average weight is 150. I'm a size eight. After a bad week, my eights are tight. I was a ten all through high school (minus the short period of a few months when I ballooned to 170...never again). Thinned out a bit in college. Madison is a HUGE campus. I think that having to walk everywhere was my savior. I've been battling to stay the same ever since.

How can I explain it...I am addicted to food. It is my drug of choice. I have good days and bad days. Good weeks and bad weeks. The above described food choices are from a good day. Let me tell you about a bad day. The following story you are about to hear is based on true facts. Names have not been changed to protect anyone's identity.

Bad days don't usually start as bad days. I have my morning workout, during which I typically think about how THIS is THE day that I will defeat The Food. My heart pounding, blood rushing, sweat dripping. Good breakfast. Good lunch. The Food feels dominated; I am beating The Food, making good choices, and am convinced that I will have Jessica Simpson's body in three months time if I could just stick to it. And I will. The day turns out to be a real ringer. I stay late at my internship to run a few errands with clients. Then I have to go to the post office and the grocery store and then finally home. At 7:00 pm. I am just pooped. This kind of bad day usually occurs mid to mid-end of the week (i.e. Wednesday or Thursday) when I have already cooked two or three absolutely scrumptious, well-balanced meals, which takes a lot of energy, time, and effort for those of you who do not know/cook. So, Nathan gets home from a long day, too, and we start discussing our long days and come to the conclusion that we should just order a large Papa John's sausage pizza. Fast. Easy. Greasy and good. I go into the kitchen, look for a coupon and come across one that says we can get a large one-topping pizza AND and order of cheese sticks for the reasonable price of $12.99. Temptation. Justification. Telephonation.

The Pizza Knight arrives in his white pinto. Nathan and I split the pizza. Four big, juicy pieces each. And we polish off about two-thirds of the cheese sticks. The Food cackles in my face. I have failed. And let me tell you, when I fail, I fail GOOD. Once I fail, I find it ludicrous to just stop there. Might as well make it worth it, right? But if I really ate how I wanted to eat all the time, I am sure Nathan, or anyone else, would be surprised, disgusted, and in some odd cases, impressed. Thus, I resort to sneaking.

Our kitchen, in our very first apartment in Bettendorf, Iowa, which I affectionately refer to as the mini-kitchen, is just that. I'm not good with dimensions, but it's about eight feet long and six feet wide. One of those galley kitchens. Old ugly cabinets. Dishwasher barely works. Limited counter space. Just about the only good thing about it is that Nathan, or anyone, can't see what I am doing in there from the living room. This is when I do my secret snacking. It's an art, really. I have a few favorite snacks, such as:

1.) Doritos.

2.) Chocolate dipped granola bars.

3.) Fig newtons.

4.) Chocolate chips.

5.) Ice cream.

Keep in mind that this is after the Papa John's feast. Like I said, when I fail, I FAIL.

Some tricks to remember when trying to eat in secret. Doritos are a challenge. The bag is noisy. However, there is a way to muffle the sound. Pretend you are doing dishes. Put the water on full blast. You can even sing a little tune to subdue the crinkling. Then munch away to you heart's content. The chocolate dipped granola bars are less of an issue. The wrappers are pretty quiet; you just need to take big bites to ensure fast finishing. Fig newtons...they kind of melt in your mouth, don't they? Words of advice. First, dip them into milk. It gets them nice and mushy. This way, if you get busted by a quiet and unexpected kitchen visitor, such as Nathan, you can swallow it real quick and it looks like you are just enjoying a healthy glass of milk. Chocolate chips are one of my favorite secret snacks. The trick is to open them right away when you get home from the grocery store. I keep mine in the baking cabinet. The best way to do it is to say you need a refill on your glass of water and while you're filling up, just grab a quick handful or chips. I tend to get very thirsty when I fail. Last, but not least, ice cream. You must be brave to try it. Nathan has to be real into a video game for me to go for this one. This trick is to ditch the bowl and just spoon it. The only down fall with that is you can't have too much simply for lack of time. You've gotta be in and out with secret snacking.

There is a point to all this babbling about The Food. When Nathan and I met, I was a hot little number. I was on Weight Watchers, working out hard, eating right. I had power over The Food. The Food wasn't even an issue. I weighed 143. I looked fab. Nathan loved it. Loved my boobs, my butt, the whole shebang. I suppose it was easy to keep up with the routine. It was summer and I had plenty of time to exercise and cook. Then, school started again. Back to the books and back to booze and back to 150+. By October, I left like crud. And not a peep from Nathan. The only thing I remember him directly mentioning was one night in his room in the frat house. We were hanging out one night, and by hanging out I mean doing it, and I had asked to turn the lights off and right after we were done, I put one of his T-shirts on. Usually, we would just hang out in the buff. Anyhoo, he says, "What's the deal with you lately? First you want the lights off and then you're putting on a shirt...what's up?" Not. "Hey, you don't look fat" or "I know you feel fat," just a "hey, what happened to my wild lover lady?"

I don't think I really responded. Maybe something clever like, "I don't know." I remember being so impressed that he never, not once, mentioned my weight. He just commented on my actions. My self-confidence. My hesitation.

I the years we've been together, like every other normal woman in America, my weight has fluctuated. When I lose three pounds and am convinced I look super slim, he tells me I look great but that I don't look any different. When I gain six pounds after the holidays, he ignores it. He grabs my waist, which I HATE because it is chock full of rolls, and when I resist, he tell me I'm his wife and he loves all of me. He calls my pouch my "pouch of beauty." He tells me he likes me soft. He loves my big old booty. And I mean LOVES it.

I have this uncanny ability to make friends with skinny girls. Girls that eat just as much as I in secret, but not in secret (okay, maybe not THAT much) and wear size fours. When I get paranoid about being around them, being bigger, being less sexy or what have you, he gives me this funny crooked little look and barks, "What do men like? Boobs and butts. What do you have? Great boobs and a great butt." It's almost as if the rest of me is invisible to him. I told you he twinkles.

Along with my rather substantial boobs and butt, I have enough cheeks for a family of four. It's doesn't matter if I'm 143 or 170, they stay about the same. And he adores them. Kisses them every day. Tells me I'm beautiful every day. He just loves me. Loves me when I'm chubby. Loves me when I'm thinner. (Note, I say thinner...I'm not quite sure I've ever been officially thin in my life). Am I still paranoid about my pouch of beauty when he rubs my belly? Absolutely. Do I ever catch a glimpse of my bottom in a mirror and gasp? Sure. Do I still feel like a beast around petite women? Obviously. But ask me if I ever feel anything less than gorgeous around my husband; to answer yes would be a flat out lie. I am so lucky to have a man that loves me for who I am, big boobs, big butt, big cheeks and all. He loves every big bit of me. And I let him love all of me.

Lesson 4: Test Him Early On

Right before Nathan and I became Us officially, I went from brunette to blonde. A big change just seemed appropriate. I had a new guy who was great; it was like turning a new leaf, all that kind of metaphorical mumbo jumbo. It was cute...possibly hot, in fact. The blonde, that is. Or at least he thought so. True to the male species, Nathan responded positively, to say the least, to my blonde ambition. It was a test of sorts, I suppose. Testing how he really reacts. Cataloguing his body language. Categorizing his facial expressions. Critiquing his verbal responses. All in the Nathan Section of my brain. You can learn a lot from a man, in my opinion, by watching how he responds to something he really likes early on in a relationship.

You can learn even more about a man, in my opinion, by watching exactly how he responds to something he really DOES NOT LIKE early on in a relationship. Nathan encountered my new blonde locks that June we were first together. By the following visit, the locks were gone. I had mentioned to Nathan that I was thinking of cutting my hair. Evidently, this is the last thing a man wants to hear. I know this now. I felt turning one leaf wasn't good enough. Had to turn another. I went to my stylist, flipped through some books, found a real cute, short cropped cut, did it, paid her, left, loved it. Short hair suits a minute bit of American females, and an even more minute bit of those with pumpkin heads like mine. Nevertheless, I am one of these women. Whom short hair suits. Or so I thought (and still do).

I am not so sure Nathan would agree. I remember I of course sported some cute new outfit to match my cute new haircut. Kind of a buffer I suppose. Now, I don't remember his initial reaction. However, I do remember sitting on his lap later that night on a stool in my apartment up at school. He was kind of leaning back and half frowning, fighting the full frown and commenting on it in this real slow carefully calculated register, "So...you...got...your...hair...cut. It looks...great." "Oh, really?" I pretended. "Do you like it?" I pleaded, batting my eyelashes. "Yeah. It looks...great," he replied with a stiff and wiggling upper lip.

During this exchange, I learned a few things: (Do you feel the list coming?)

1.) He may not always tell the truth when I ask him girl questions.

2.) He may consider my feelings when put in awkward and potentially disastrous situations.

3.) The Lip Thing.

A disclaimer before I explain. I don't know if all men have been blessed with the Lip Thing. It may present itself in different, yet similar, forms, i.e. possibly the Eye Thing, the Nose Thing, the Foot Thing. In a perfect world, they all have a Lip Thing and all we have to do is find it.

Here's what the Lip Thing is. You know how guys look when they are trying not to cry? That area above their top lip kind of stiffens and wiggles at the same time? (By the way, I have always thought that Wiggles would be a great dog name.) Well, that is the Lip Thing. Based on my observations spanning the last few years, Nathan does the Lip Thing in response to a few things:

1.) When he is trying not to cry.

2.) When he is kidding.

3.) When he is lying.

I find it important to report 99% effectiveness in noticing, identifying, and utilizing the Lip Thing. I have missed the signs and symptoms only once. (More on that later.)

It wasn't entirely noticeable the first time I saw it. I do remember that I found the stiff wiggling a bit strange. It just took so much away from him. It made him look fake happy. And he's a pretty genuinely happy guy. That weekend, I saw the Lip Thing a few more times, each in response to my short 'do somehow. I guess I knew he was lying. And not that any lies are good, but at least it wasn't over anything real important. I still was still quite a hot nineteen-year-old. My favorite age. Mainly because I was thin and cute.

I don't think I knew I was testing him back then. Okay, maybe just a teensy bit, but in truth, I had always wanted short hair to try it out, be different, find a good style for my pumpkin head and baby fine thin hair. Either way, he passed the test. Think of what that means to a man in his Weird Man World. I could picture it, introducing me to his guy friends, "Yeah, this is Maggie, the most wonderful woman I have even known. Isn't she just striking?" And then following up later when I'm in the bathroom with, "Yeah, guys, she had long hair a week ago," as the crowd of men sighed in unison.

And yet, he loved me. He supported me. He still told me I was beautiful. Again, many women may have dismissed this as insignificant, or as a given, or just as no big deal. Alas, naive ones, remember they live in Weird Man World -- where long hair on your lady friend, especially your new one you have to introduce as your pick out of all the women in Madison, is second in importance to maybe cold beer. He never asked me to grow it back out. He never asked me to stop cutting it. He never really mentioned it again. It makes you wonder if he really knew what was worth getting into a spiff over and what wasn't, what really meant something and what didn't, what he liked and what he really didn't like. And again, he twinkled.