Filed under: my husband
It was Saturday, October 30th, 1999.
I had the option to attend two different Halloween gatherings. One was close to my house in the suburbs, the other was in the city. I’m someone who wants to like Halloween. Every year around early September, I start to get all excited. I want to get the greatest costume and go out on the town. But then, it seems out of nowhere, it is the night before and I have purchased no costume and feel like going nowhere. This was the case on October 30th, 1999.
I had been back and forth all morning with a couple of friends who were trying to convince me to go out that night. One to the party in the burbs, the other to the city. I decided I would head to the mall, see if there were any costumes left, and decide from there.
I headed out with some friends and came home with a pair of fake leather pants, a blue feather boa, a blue wig, a tiara, and a sparkly tank top. Scary, right? It was the best I could do. I decided I would be Fabulous for Halloween.
I opted for the party in the suburbs. Since I wasn’t too excited about going out in the first place, I thought it would be best to stay close to home.
Shortly before I was about to leave, I got a call from a friend. His band was playing at the party in the city. Their van broke down and they had no way to transport their equipment. Knowing I had access to a truck, they asked if I could lend them a hand.
This is where, I believe, fate stepped in. (more…)
Filed under: my husband
I searched the crowd surreptitiously, and spotted him almost immediately. He was 6’2 – his height and shaved-short red hair set him apart from the other students waiting at the campus bus stop. It had been a few weeks, and he had been here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Broad-shouldered, handsome, and blue-eyed – he carried himself in a way that was both purposeful and relaxed. He looked confident. As always, his clothes were casual but unusually stylish and well coordinated, as though he had been dressed for a magazine photo shoot to embody “cool college guy”. I managed to catch his eye for a moment and we exchanged noncommittal stranger’s smiles. Eeek! (more…)
I moved to St. Paul, MN from Eugene, Oregon in 2003. It was the cold of March; we were driving cross country, the three of us crammed into the front of a rented U-Haul, pulling the car behind. Our two-year-old baby, Abigail, sat patiently strapped to the car seat.
My parents, friends, co-workers all said that this move would end up a huge mistake. Maybe I was making the biggest mistake of my life? I was leaving my family, with a man who really wasn’t that into me, and moving to Minnesota–a part of the country I was completely unfamiliar with. (more…)
When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, You knew my path. – Psalm 142:3
At the time Jerry and I met, we were previously married to other people. I was married 10 years and Jerry was married 16 years–both of us had no children. It was September 2001 when we met through our previous employer, and were coworkers and merely acquaintances. In March 2003, I left to a different employer. On August 1, 2004, my then husband left, and we began our growth by divorce. On August 21, 2004, I ran into Jerry, and in our conversation I told him of my marital status, which he too was going through with his then wife. From then on, we became friends, and a couple. (more…)
Filed under: my husband
We still argue about how the story goes. As if memory, or our different memories, was an integral part of its meaning. What we agree on is that he burned me. And the culprit was the espresso maker or perhaps the very small size of the apartment where he lived.
243 W. 107th Street Apt. 2B.
He was the new boyfriend of a friend of mine from college. We—my boyfriend at the time and I—had been invited to their house for dinner.
My college chum was making coquilles Saint Jacques. I was late and my then-boyfriend was later, so I arrived alone. I had just started working as a receptionist at the Association of American Publishers; I was wearing my first cheap power suit and cheaper still nylon tights, which I had purchased that morning from Rexalls on lower Broadway.
I had on very high heels, too, which hurt my feet.
I came in and sat on a chair pulled up to the kitchen table, perched on the soft pine wood floor, pitted and gouged as was the fashion of most tenements. He was making coffee.
Someone said “Sheila meet Duncan,” and he turned around with the espresso maker in his hand.
Heat and liquid, liquid and heat. He must have taken it off too soon, because it bubbled over and a jet of dark brown poured into my lap, through the skirt of my (too-cheap) power suit; onto the nylons.
What color were they? Warm Toast? Burnt Almond? Sienna.
They melted and I screamed. No one really knew what to do. (more…)
