The Dandelion Adventure

Four years ago today was my first date with my now husband, Eric. We sat in the smallest booth at Corcran’s Pub, across from The Second City on Wells St. in Chicago. It was a blind date. “Hi I’m Eric.” he said, and held out his hand. He had thick black hair and an honest face. He was wearing jeans and a Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt that looked like a baseball jersey. A masculine gray and deep green. Cute. For me with first dates I had a rule. That was either go out for a beer or a coffee, and if I decided I liked them food could be involved. And the dates always took place in my neighborhood so I had an easy escape route if necessary. That particular October night, the Chicago White Sox had a very good chance to win the World Series, and I knew the bar would be packed. As this was my favorite neighborhood hangout, I had the inside track on how it operated. I knew that Second City was rehearsing a new show, and I knew the director would be coming in for dinner beforehand, thus needing to leave just in time for me to arrive. Clockwork. I selected the perfect two seat booth, just enough intimacy and just enough of an angle to view the sports action. Eric and I exchanged pleasantries and sat down. I wanted to not be a high maintenance girl, so I ordered a simple and cheap Miller Lite. He ordered the same, and we did the basic “tell me about yourself” stuff. I remember at first thinking how boring he was, talking about being in the Navy and working as a loan funder for a real estate company. Nothing I could relate to. I barely recall him mentioning he just that past summer signed on with the Army Reserves. After a slight polite pause, the subject changed to simplier, more silly topics. Cartoons and comedy shows. My attitude brightened when he mentioned his love for the TV show, “The Family Guy” a show that I had just recently discovered and was enamored with. A couple more beers followed, comedy quotes filled the air and eventually I was comfortable ordering nachos. We laughed and joked and watched the Chicago White Sox win the World Series. It was a good night.

Another rule I gave myself was that for a date, I didn’t need to know if he was “the one” or anything like that. All I needed to know was if I wanted a 2nd date. Eric walked me to my apartment and asked for a 2nd date. I said okay, but he would have to choose either this coming Friday or Saturday, not both as he originally suggested. “Saturday it is” he happily quipped, and came in for the traditional good night kiss. To me, a good Catholic girl, a goodnight kiss on the first date was a light hug and a peck on the cheek, the kind you give your grandma as you are leaving the traditional Christmas gathering. Eric pulled a fast one. He turned his head and got my lips. And stayed there. I could hear him breathe deep and heavy. I felt clueless and powerful all at once. Did I have this guy wrapped around my finger and didn’t even know it?

Now I'm nervous. Continuous calls and emails followed. Funny and sweet. All harmlessly asking for more time and attention than my cautiousness was willing to give. I would vocally worry to my girlfriends about what this all meant. They over and over reassured me I was lucky and to just enjoy it.

One day a knock came to my door, a UPS man with flowers. I swallowed hard, signed on the X and opened the box to discover the most beautiful fall arrangement, full of golds and oranges and reds with a card endlessly scribbling about how special I was and how he couldn’t wait to get to know me more and how I brightened his day and he hoped these brightened mine. A hot fire rushed up the back of my neck. Excitement and fear just punched each other hard in the face and I didn’t know what the hell to do. I took a picture of it with my cell phone and sent it to my girlfriends and waited for their responses. Within minutes, floods of texts of AWESOME and AWWW and HE’S A KEEPER filled my phone. I just stared at them. What did I do?

Now, four years later, I’m a wife. I’m no longer chased, I’m caught. Sadly, and sometimes bitterly, I feel more deserving than ever of flowers that never come. If I could tell every man in the world that all it would take to keep their women happy for the next six months is to buy them flowers for no reason whatsoever, I would. If I won the lottery I would go into the business of secretly buying flowers for women in their man’s name and watch happily as the world would increasingly grow happy. Wars would end. Peace would fill every corner of the universe and everything would smell like vanilla.

The other night my husband asked why had I not made my famous Ceviche in a while. My Ceviche is his favorite. Ice cold shrimp marinated in a delicous combination of lemon and lime juice, then handsomely welcomed into a family of chopped garlic, roma tomatoes, cilantro, jalapenos and purple onion. Topped with avocado and eaten with thick cut tortilla chips. It’s absolutely devine. One night in August, a full batch on hand, Eric and I stood in our kitchen and happily ate the entire thing. It was indeed the most fantastic feast. This time when he asked for it, I felt like a diner waitress taking an order. He was oblivious to the fact that after working a full day as a graphic designer, I had just cleaned the entire apartment (including two bathrooms, scrubbed the floors, and washed and folded 4 loads of laundry. The scent of homemade lasagna in the oven filled the air. Smelling of bleach and exhausted, my sharp tongue and hurtful heart snapped back, “I’ll make Ceviche the next time I get flowers.”

Of course, if that happens it won’t count. Those “flowers for no reason” are the moments I long for, moments that seem like they will never happen again.