By the second glance at a party, I knew she was it for me. I’d had free drinks in Vegas—no idea how many—and we were starving. So, around a bite of a pretty damn good Wolfgang Puck burger, it gave me enough courage to spit out what I knew ten seconds after seeing her the very first time. I said, “You’re it for me. I’m done.”
She said, “You’re drunk.”
I said, “Marry me before I sober up.”
She laughed so hard she snorted more tequila out of her nose, and then, she said, “Only if you promise to never tell me to calm down.”
We finished the burger and were married thirty minutes later.
She wore a Ring Pop. I used a bread twist tie. We honeymooned in a cheap hotel seven blocks off of the Strip that had exactly two pillows and one vibrating ice machine.
It was perfect.
Three and a half weeks later, we were at home, eating Chinese takeout in our shared bed.
She reorganized the entire spice rack alphabetically, and then, by flavor scale… multiple times a week.
I always moved the cayenne pepper to the front because I think “cayenne goes with everything and heat makes you horny.”
She told me I was mentally chaotic, with far too much manly sex appeal and too many tattoos that she wanted to lick.
I told her she was a stunning dictator with a label maker and a goddess complex.
Then, we had wild sex on the kitchen counter and when we were both satisfied and sweaty, she grabbed a homemade dumpling from my steamer that her ass knocked over, threw it at my face, and told me she wanted me to leave. I said no. So, she said to sleep on the couch.
I didn’t.
Roxy and I have never been good at doing things halfway.
So, when we fight… we don’t. Like everything else we detonate.
It’s manic and wild and untamable.
Some would call it toxic. But we just call it us.
Three days after the spice rack incident, she packed a bag and said, “We need space,” and I let her walk out the door.
That was the first time we actually “separated” but not really.
I was just too dumb to say, “Take all the space you want—just leave room for me, you psycho. I love you.”
It’s happened hundreds of times over the years. She freaks and kicks me out. I normally refuse to leave and wait until her crazy calms down… enough. Except when she changes the locks. Like last week.
I don’t fancy breaking into my own house, again, so that’s what this week is for.
My second chance times a bazillion.
Operation: Win-Back-My-Crazy-As-All-Get-Out-Wife-Because-I-Cannot-Be-Without-Her.
Yes, Chase. You know it’s manipulative.
But what else can I do?
And I’m talking to myself. Her crazy must be rubbing off on me.
I’m doing it in a fun, emotionally-vulnerable, maybe-there-will-be-nudity, no, there will most definitely be nudity, kind of way.
As soon as I reread it, the itinerary will be retaped under the bathroom sink. Just in case she tries to snoop.
