My "Non-Trial" Marriage

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My husband and I are a match made in hell. You read that correctly. It wasn't a typo. Here it is again for those with short-term memory loss: My husband and I are a match made in hell, but if you’re anything at all like I am, you already know that hell is way more fun than heaven anyway.

You know how we met. You know the story. Los Angeles. NBC studios. The game show. The Weakest Link. The final two. Against each other. The final question, and the ultimate win... for him, that is, since even though he lost, he walked away with me. He likes to call me the consolation prize. I like to remind him that I'm the one who got the money. He likes to remind me that I spent it all on him anyway, so what did it ultimately matter? And I like to remind him how much of a big fat prick he is. See? Hell. And we wouldn't have it any other way.

On May 16, 2004, I married a 6'2" light brown-haired, Anglo-Saxon, Orlando-born, Southern gentleman by the name of Stanley in the fine, fine city of Asheville, North Carolina. Oh, I haven't told you about Stanley? Oh, yeah, he came before Todd. He was my fou ... no, no, fifth husband. Yes. Stanley. OH, I'll STOP. Stanley Todd is my husband's full name, which, duh, I laughed at tremendously when it was first leaked to me and still giggle once a week (at least.)


Photo by Abbey Rae. (Flickr)

Obviously he goes by Todd because he would be an idiot not to and because this isn’t 1963 no matter how much Mad Men you watch. So, eight years ago today I married Todd at an antebellum mansion overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains. I had grown up a lot since my first marriage -- or, my "trial" marriage as I like to refer to it -- and while I thought I knew it all as I stood there in my eggshell-colored Belgian lace gown with matching flower in my hair, I look back on that day today and realize just how much I've learned, and continue to learn from him, and from us, and from life. Every. Goddamned. Day.

Here is a short list of eight awesome things that my husband has taught me over our eight years of marriage:

  • How to set a table, properly. I came from a house where if you were right-handed, everything went on the right side of the plate. Where napkins were paper towels. Where you only had ONE fork. ONE spoon, and ONE plate, and if you didn’t like to eat your salad after your meal on your dirty macaroni gravy plate, then you better be prepared to wash all of the dishes, because your mother was not your maid, miss snottie-pants. “What are you, better than us or something?

  • I don’t ever have to open my own door, or pull out my own chair, ever. Granted, it took me years to learn both of these things, and after I finally got used to it, I figured out just how much of a feminist I am not. Viva la Chivalry!

  • Never say “SoandSo and I at the Brittany concert” as a caption to a picture on any social network.  It’s poor grammar, and not in the usual “your welcome” sort of way, either. You would say “This is SoandSo at the concert” and you would also say “This is me at the concert,” but you would never say “This is I at the concert” because you would sound like a dick. So, just add SoandSo and me together, and, voila!! English language saved!

  • Debates do not equal vase-throwing contests. I’m Italian. I’m loud. We’re all loud. That’s what we’re used to. But apparently, these proper Southern folk use things like “words” and “discussions” to get their points across. I was not familiar with these terms. I did not speak in this foreign tongue. But after eight years, six vases, two remote controls and a fairly expensive painting by a local artist, I now proudly say that I speak the language about as fluently as high-school Spanish. Meaning, I can recite my days of the week, but, I’m probably still struggling with the correct way to ask for change of a twenty. Good enough, eh? Thanks again, babe.

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