My Little Psychotic

With a new engagement and a wedding looming many people ask how we met. It’s fun or embarrassing to admit that we met when I was a lowly intern and he a hot-shot editor, that is the black and white story. Some stories have more depth, more daring, more delusional psychotic history.

Recently we hooked up with our new landlord at a bakery. Instead of ordering a pastry or treat, we just sat there in a semi-awkward silence. It was weirdness we had noticed when we’d viewed the apartment. Skip’s usual ice breaking tactics didn’t not work, but they didn’t really work either. As we left the condo we both commented on the social differences. And by differences we meant that they lacked in being cool, and quite possibly they had a similar thought about us.

Leave it to me to really ponder this, I went as far as placing one spouse on the Autism Spectrum Disorder (eye contact is important people!). So when I found myself sitting across from the husband while Skip read and reread and signed and read the documents it seemed like I should investigate. I attribute this general curiosity/nosiness to my mother. After he asked about my engagement and wedding I turned those same questions on him; well not exactly but I asked how he and his wife met. ICE BREAKER.

“We met in a psych ward. She was a nurse and I was a patient.”

Wait, what. That’s how my parents met! I wish I could say I played it cool and listened to his story but I started hyperventilating, choking on water as a sputtered out my laughter. Back in their BYU days my parents worked at the psych hospital. And while they both worked there my mom gives that same line to people who ask how they met.

“I was a nurse at the psych hospital and your father was a patient.”

My new landlord told me story after story of the kids he worked with, he did more recreation therapy, something current in my own job history.

When we left and Skip encouraged my social skills (usually he’s doing the talking and I’m politely silent, that does not mean I don’t know how to interact) I decided that every woman must have their own little psychotic to love.

From now on when people ask how we met I will say, “We met at a psych ward. I was a nurse, he was a patient.”

You Don't Know Me

I'm about to blurt and you're about to read it. He's trying to engage me, not in the ceramics-painting-art-is-fun-way or the you-will-learn-to-snowboard-without-injury-way but in the lifelong-teamwork-have-my-babies-way. I blame my cousin Kellie's farewell where he developed baby lust after looking at my little cousins. Just glad he didn't try to take one home.

So in this new life adventure I'm supposed to help procure the most amazing jewelry commitment. A ring I will wear everyday for the rest of my life. It's got to fit every situation and outfit, not only for my current lifestyle but for all fashion and career choices in my future. Terrifying task. I know diamonds and gems are timeless now but in 10, 20, 30, 40 years will that hold true? Probably, it's the golden anniversary I'm worried about. I'll be creeping on 80 and the last thing I'll want is a huge slab of weight on my finger, instead I'd like a cozy crocheted knuckle warmer.

This one decision has kept me up long nights and given me ulcers, until I stumbled on a ring quiz developed for the guy who wanted to capture an unsuspecting girl. I figured I'd let the professionals find my perfect ring and all I had to do was answer four simple questions about me.

Who knew I'd fail? I took, retook and mathematically tried every possiblity ((f)x:4!). Each time a beautiful diamond ring I'd slit my wrists over flashed before me like a punishment. He took it one time and sent me proof of his A+, a ring nearly identical in design to what I'd said I liked.

Question one: dream getaway? outdoor adventure, uptown venues, beach. Umm...what is it I like. I've done them all and loved them all so I sat stumped. It's not like there was only one such getaway that I spent my savings on.
His correct answer: beach

Question two: shoes she always wears? athletic kicks, stiletto heels, bare feet. Hmm. Love heels. Barefoot gives me blisters. An athlete I'm not. I tapped my Vans covered toes on the floor debating between bare and heels. Never mind the brown skate shoes I take off every time I go to someone's home.
His correct answer: athletic.

Question three: favorite concert? loud wild boy music, soft slow snoring music, or Breezy music. I got this one because in the example they listed one band whose concert I've been to and another that I have both alblms of.
His correct answer: Underground indie.

Question four: celebrity style? casual, trendsetter, fabulous. No clue. I don't know what my lack of style is. So I decided that all the Gap clothing forced on me by my sisters years ago defined me—casual. Wrong. And those designer gowns I strut around in made me feel fabulous. Wait, no longer in high school trying on prom dresses. Instead I take cues from rock stars who throw on weird accessories and dark colors.
His correct answer: trendsetter.
The Ring

Finally an approximation to the perfect ring. But it's not because I had already found my perfect ring. Others might not see the 4c's but those who know me will fall in love with it (for me).

Maybe you do know me.