I’m cleaning the bathroom. It’s a deep clean because the bathroom needs it and my in-laws are visiting. Not that they’re going to be using our shower or anything, it’s just a way for me to waste time cleaning something that doesn’t necessarily need to be cleaned when there are piles of laundry to be folded on the couch. Kinda like when I was 8 and I had toys piled in the floor and Mom would walk in to check on my progress only to find me dusting my perfume bottles and arranging them tallest to shortest on my vanity.

Yeah.

Well, I’ve been fighting something for a long time in the shower. No, not the desire to shave my legs because that is nonexistent.

Black mold.

Now, I don’t know if it’s the cancer causing kind, but with this old house leakiness I’m worried that it’s In The Walls. Sitting. Waiting. Silently attacking our brain cells and causing exacerbating neuroses.

So what does a person who is prone to WebMD-ing (verb, like Googling) every cramp or temperature change do when she thinks she has black mold lurking in the walls? She Googles pictures of black mold. And when she can’t be confident that what she’s got isn’t the bad kind, she looks up “symptoms of toxic black mold poisoning” and gets scared because everything it lists is something she has experienced in the 5 years she’s been living in this house, except for “spleen pain” and that’s only because she’s not sure where her spleen is.

There could totally BE spleen pain. Where is my SPLEEN?

And then the she who is me decides to counteract the cancer-causing mold spores by stopping at Jamba Juice and getting one of those açai berry smoothies because it’s filled with antioxidants and that’s really my only chance now. But on the way there I’m on the phone with my mom who sounds like she picked up smoking overnight and made up for the 40-some-odd years she didn’t smoke. She’s got some sort of contagious infection and I was just with her last night for an extended period of time…

Sheesh.

As luck would have it I did have a buy-one-get-one-free coupon, so I got the açai and the Coldbuster®, which I am saving for the morning. Tonight I’m fighting off the mold spores and tomorrow I’ll battle the common cold.

Now back to the shower.

Now, this is the story all about how…

Just kidding. But I do know every single word to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song. It’s gotten me a long way in life, as you can probably tell.

This is something I’ve been meaning to write for a long time. It is “The Story of How I Met My Husband, Long-Form.” I’m pretty sure most people know the short version — went to school, hung out for a few years, met this dude who was a senior in high school when I was in 8th grade, got married.

I was blogging the entire time we were dating, but I never ever talked about our relationship. It may amaze you that I managed that sort of restraint, however, it never occurred to me that writing about it while it was happening would be appropriate. In reality, I’m very talented at freaking people out and the last thing I wanted to do was scare this fairly normal, upstanding, Christian guy away.

Ours is an interesting story. I hear all the time from people who knew us both before we dated that they never would have pictured us together — and I get that. Neither would I. But together? It’s like when you find a good contrasting color to paint one wall in a room, one that by itself maybe doesn’t look like it will belong with the main color, but then you put them together and stand back to take it all in and say, “Huh. It works somehow.”

I’ve established the TV and movies that I feel represent our relationship the best. It’s sorta like Son-In-Law in the situation (only that Kevin is nothing like Pauly Shore and I didn’t come home from my first year of college donning fish-nets and brassy bottle-blond hair…but you know, other than that); like My Big Fat Greek Wedding in that…well, have you met my family? We’re not Greek, but I think if you threw an accent on us all and encouraged us to break china you wouldn’t be able to see much difference. And at this stage in our lives it’s something like Green Acres, only reverse. I’m definitely the one who wants to move (back) to the country and farm. And Kevin tells me I’m responsible for the feeding of the goat and chickens because he wants no part of it.

There’s a little bit of Big Valley thrown in, but lest anyone start thinking I want my husband dead and the responsibility of running a whole ranch on my hands, I’m going to leave that one out for now.

Only here’s the deal — I’ve got no idea what to call this little series of mine. I’m working on a name and I’ve got a few possibilities floating around in my head, but I’m going to let you, the reader, tell me which one you prefer. That post will be later today or tomorrow, but right now I want to open it up to your suggestions.

What do you think would be a good name for the series about how I met my husband?

I have the body language of a liar. Sheesh.

(viewing on Google reader? click through for video.)

Once upon a time, there was a castle little white house in a small city and it was covered with a thick blanket of beautiful roses a bunch of nasty weeds and tree branches. A fair princess suburban housewife lived inside with her handsome, devoted, and brave prince husband. The husband fought off many fire-breathing dragons tackled the yard work and kept them safe inside their home.

The husband worked to cut away all the branches so that sunlight would once again shine on their house. A great pile of wood grew in the backyard. Higher and higher every day. Bit by bit, the housewife and the husband cleared away the pile but never seemed to make any headway. The housewife grew uneasy because she was originally from the country and she knew what was drawn to woodpiles — critters.

But surely there would be no critters in the city…right?

First, there was a possum.

Then a rat in the garden.

And then another one of those fire-breathing dragons a snake.

In the dark of the night the husband summoned the housewife to the drawbridge porch. There on the cement slithered the snake. He sought her country expertise in creepy crawly things. That, and her ability to hold a flashlight.

The snake looked suspect and no chances could be taken with their prized stallion terrier mix living in the backyard. The husband took a whack at it and disabled it. Then the housewife took the shovel and chopped off the snake’s head.

And then they frantically searched the tomes in their library the Internet to see if they’d killed a poisonous viper or a harmless, helpful creature.

Does anyone know what this is? (WARNING: Don’t click on this link if you’re sensitive to photos of snakes with their heads cut off.)

Crud. Looks like he was one of the good guys.

That’s what we say. It’s easier, less jolting than “miscarriage.”

Married two months. Just starting a new job. Pregnant was not where I expected to be. And…there I was. For the first few days I tried to push the thought out of my mind. As if that would change things.

Then the worry set in.

We’re not ready. It’s only been two months. What will people think? We can’t afford this. I just started this job. How can this be real? What are we going to do?

I’m not ready.

Then reality set in. I would have to go to the doctor and get what I already knew to be true confirmed. Plans would have to be changed. I wouldn’t be able to work at my new job for the entire year. We would have to come up with an entirely new idea of what our life was going to be, because it wasn’t just him and me anymore. (And while I was able to work all that out in my mind, I should point out that I was still really deep in denial about what was happening.)

And then my fearful reservation split wide open. (more…)

Sometime around 11:37 p.m. last night I realized that I left out the most egregious assumption I ever made about a nickname.

For a long time, I had no idea what my husband’s real name was. First or last. So there was a lot of confusion in my 19-year-old brain as to why everyone called him “Crumpy.” I mean, what is that? Of course when you know his name it makes complete sense, but if you don’t, you might be in the same boat I was whenever I first met the guy and heard his name around the dorm a lot.

My first thought — Maybe he’s grumpy and somebody thought that sounded clever. Hmm. A grumpy guy? I don’t like grumpy people. Especially people who are so grumpy that they are actually known for being so. Not that I had any opportunity to hang out with him at this point, but…STRIKE ONE!

Second thought, and absolutely the most disturbing…let me start with a video.

Around that time krumping was making its way into the main stream and being featured on a number of TV shows. And because it sounded so similar and I knew absolutely nothing about my husband back then, I thought maybe he participated in that kind of dancing. I’ve never shared that with him before. Surprise, Kevin! For me that was STRIKE TWO because if you think bringing that into the Johnson household would have been acceptable at all then you do not know my Paw Paw or Dad.

I went to Freddy’s this afternoon and ate a ton of food that I am not supposed to have. Ah well. Living a little before the school year gets started.

Kevin chose moderation and had a hamburger and fries.

I…did not. I had a hamburger and fries and a chili dog. *hides face in shame*

But I have no regrets. Tomorrow is a new day, fresh with no hotdogs…err…mistakes in it.

I have a history of breaking and entering, but that’s another story. For the record, this is the first time (and only, I anticipate) I have used any part of an ax to do so. Let me break it down for you.

Haha. Break it down.

It was a hot Friday in June. This June. So like, one month and a couple of days ago. I was doing what any good gardener does early that morning — watering my precious plants. That day my husband had to be at a professional development seminar about 15 minutes away, so he was up early that morning as well. I had lots planned for the day. The next morning we were leaving to fly back east for our extremely delayed trip to visit his parents and a few other family members. There was laundry to be done, dishes to wash, animals to care for, and of course, because I don’t do things until the last minute — bags to be packed.

Kevin leaned out the back door to tell me he was leaving. I smiled and waved, continuing on with my task. Watering took me about another 10 minutes and then I decided to plant a shrub that had needed to be in the ground weeks before. It was on the front porch so I headed to the back door to take a short cut through the house. The handle turned, but the door didn’t open.

Hmm. Must be stuck.

I pushed harder. Nothing. The deadbolt was locked.

Now, I wasn’t immediately angry. Just aggravated. Like I said, history of breaking and entering and all that, I’m pretty good at getting out of jams. I’m resourceful. So I assessed the situation.

1. There was no going through the backdoor. It’s brand new with good locks and there’s just no messing it up to get in the house.
2. My phone was in the house
3. Every other door into my house was locked.
4. All the windows were locked.
5. All of my harmless neighbors had already left for work.
6. I wasn’t sufficiently dressed to go knocking on doors. It was 8 a.m. Can I get an “amen” from a lady who knows what I’m talking about?

It was much worse than I had originally thought.

But then I remembered. We have a really old door on the back of the garage that needed to be replaced anyway, so I thought I could just knock off the door knob like they do in movies and make my way in.

First I wanted to see if I could slam into the thing with my shoulder and get in that way.

I hurt my shoulder. The door didn’t move.

I grabbed a brick and went at the door knob. Bang. Bang. BANG. Nothing. I should tell you that the door knob was already pretty badly torn up from when my old dog, Lulu, had her nervous breakdown and would chew on it. And the underneath side of the door. Thanks, Lu. I wouldn’t have made it inside the house if it weren’t for you. I went at it with the brick for another 10 minutes or so with no results.

Then I grabbed the hoe. Stuck it behind the door knob and thought I could just pop that thing right off there.

Then I broke the hoe.

As a last resort, I tried to stick my hand up under the door to see how much further up the door knob was so that maybe I could unlock it. It was a long way. I tried unlocking it from the other side with a stick. Didn’t work. I tried pulling a MacGuyver and using some tough grass as a key. I think you can imagine how that went.

While my hand was under there I felt the ax handle and I pulled it out.

FYI, there’s no ax head on the end of the handle. Just so we’re clear.

I tried loosening the door knob with the ax handle. That didn’t work. Then I tried breaking away the bottom of the door with it. I did see some progress there, but I was quickly losing hope. I had been locked out for about 40 minutes at this point and was nearing tears. There’s just something about being locked out of your house, you know?

And then the dog walked over and laid down beside me and I knew — I was going to die out here.

With one final burst of adrenaline, the kind that makes me believe that YES, I can give birth to a baby someday like my ancestor did out in the woods without any IV drips, I grabbed the handle and plowed through that door. Chopped about a quarter of it down. I reached up under that door and unlocked it.

Sweet relief. I was in the house. And as soon as I was inside, the phone rang. I ran to answer it, out of breath for so many reasons. It was my mom.

“I have been trying to call you. Why weren’t you answering the phone.”

WAIL.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I…was…locked…out of the house [sobbing commences].”

“Well how did that happen?”

“Kevin locked me out!”

(I should probably mention that my time outside had been spent alternately praying and plotting how I would kill my husband.)

“Well, he didn’t mean to.”

And then she laughed. And I was in no mood for it. She could tell and we weren’t on the phone much longer.

As I was in the middle of typing a not-so-nice text message to my husband, the phone rang again and I answered it all pitiful, expecting it to be my mom again.

Instead, it was an administrator calling to set up an interview with Kevin. An interview for a job that he needed. That we needed. There was no time for being upset. And that was nice of God to intervene in that way because, seriously? I was about to Throw. Down. For the next 45 minutes I had to work on contacting Kevin at this meeting he was at, which proved to be very difficult when he had his phone on silent, but I finally managed to get a hold of him. He had the interview right then and we found out a few weeks later that he got the job.

And that’s how I busted through the door with an ax (handle).

Oh, hi, Matt. And Tim.

. . .

My one word for Season 3: Transition. I’ve been told all along Season 3 is where the series really starts to get … confusing, if you will. I was content with the first two seasons. Sure, there were a few more questions raised in Season 2, but compared to Season 3, most of them seem … unimportant. I don’t want to say irrelevant because the smallest occurrence could have a significant impact on future events. Plus, the questions posed by this season seem … deeper. Like there’s more to them. It’s hard to put into words. Though I’ll certainly do my best… (more…)

We fly Southwest. Always. Always always. Kevin does not believe in paying extra for bags and hey, I’m right there with him. So I’ve only ever flown Southwest except for that one time that we had to fly Delta. Thankfully our experience looked nothing like what Colleen usually deals with, but still. I prefer our usual.

Long before I stepped on my first flight (3 years ago at age 22) I was a fan of the A&E show Airline (it’s streaming on Netflix so go check it out!). It was an early reality-based TV show that actually showed what the people of Southwest Airlines did on a day-to-day basis and not some cooked up drama. I love flying through BWI because most of the time I see one of the ladies that I used to watch every week. The show is really entertaining (to me at least, but you have to keep in mind that at the time I wanted to be a flight attendant) and can be hilarious at times. I mean, drunk people in an airport, trying to get on a plane. Or drunk people who have missed their flight. Or drunk people who swear they aren’t drunk and if you don’t let them on that plane then by George you’ll regret it because they are missing their own wedding to a person they met in the bar at this very airport one month ago (actual plot from an episode). Common denominator here — drunk people. Coming from a family of teetotalers, drunk people are hilarious to me, especially the ones making royal fools of themselves in public.

The thing is I’ve never run into anyone drunk in an airport. Ever. Haven’t witnessed a scene of any kind. But Airline had prepared me for what I might encounter, so whenever I was boarding the plane in Denver to fly to Philly and felt someone bump into me and sort of get all up on me, I tried not to react because I had an idea of what I might be in for. Well, then this woman started shaking my shoulder and saying, “Excuse me, excuse me please, can you tell me where I need to be?” Her voice sounded familiar and I turned to check out the number on her boarding pass to help her find her place in line.

Oh. My. Lands.

It is a drunk.

It’s Meredith from The Office.

DRUNK MEREDITH.

Okay, it was Kate Flannery, but in my mind I am thinking DRUNK MEREDITH FROM THE OFFICE IS RIGHT HERE. I am not sure how many different faces my countenance contorted into at that moment, but I know my eyes were as big as saucers. Somehow I remained composed, checked out the number on her boarding pass, and told her that she was in front of us.

All the while, Kevin is deep in conversation with this guy about the Big 12 and what’s happening to it and yada yada, he doesn’t even notice that DRUNK MEREDITH is standing right in front of him. She is a pretty tiny lady, but still. So I’m kind of jabbing him but he doesn’t really respond because he’s used to me doing that sort of thing. And because I’m afraid he’s going to miss this or that the internet won’t believe me when I return with my tale, I dig around for my phone and snap the best picture I could get in that lighting. My real camera is a little too serious looking and I didn’t want to scare her or think I was some weirdo.

He finally responds to all my poking and prodding by turning around and saying, “Do you see who that is?!” And I’m thinking, No, I’ve only been poking your ribs for the past minute in a half to annoy you. But I just nod. By this time, Ms. Flannery has started eating an Egg McMuffin and I was really really hoping that Kevin would just let her be. But do you know Kevin? Okay. And the thing is, he’s sneaky. Quiet. Almost a creeper, but not quite. He’s very good at jumping out and scaring people. And really, his cunning is rivaled only by that of some African jungle cat. I’m pretty sure we put it on the table during our premarital counseling that he is never allowed to sneak up on me or scare me in anyway. Like my mother, I am highly susceptible to those types of attacks.

And what did Kevin do? He leaned down next to her and whispered, “We’re really big fans of the show.” She turned, smiling, enjoying her Egg McMuffin and said, “Aww, thanks.” That began a conversation between the two of them that I listened to but really didn’t participate in because it’s DRUNK MEREDITH and all my life I have wondered what I would do if I encountered a celebrity of any caliber and what I did know was that I would not be annoying. Shoot, sometimes I hate it when people start talking to me out of the blue. Imagine if people did that everywhere you went. That sounds like my worst nightmare (next to the movie Breakdown, but you know what I mean).

She was gracious and very pleasant, answered Kevin’s questions about her favorite episodes to be in (The Wedding), and went on her way to her seat. Whenever we got off the plane 4 hours later I asked Kevin not to bother her again, even though she didn’t put off the vibe that he was bothering her. And what happens? She approaches him while we’re waiting for our baggage and strikes up a conversation! What a nice woman.

Kate, you’re the only celebrity I have ever accidentally run into. And only the third famous person I’ve met in my life (the other two being Nicholas Sparks and Tom Lester aka Eb from Green Acres). And it was really nice to meet you. Thank you for putting up with us crazy Office fans.

And the best part, by far, is what she said to Kevin when they first started talking. “Sorry I’m just eating an Egg McMuffin and not drinking.”