Getting Pelted By My Husband

Typically, I write about my kids or the crazy things I experience. I got the feeling my husband was feeling a little left out when he asked, “So, where am I?”

Well, dearest, here you are.

My husband and I had a fairtytale beginning when we met almost 14 years ago in the basement of a fraternity house. Amidst the haze of beer fumes, I noticed him tending bar and thought, “Hey, this guy doesn’t look like a total douchebag; I think I’ll talk to him.”

One thing led to another, and I found myself inviting him upstairs to hang out. And drink kool-aid.

Seriously. It had been a long night and I was thirsty.

We had a long intellectual conversation about current events. Or we made awkward small talk while mooning over each other. One of the two.

The point is, we parted ways that night without an exchange of phone numbers. Frankly, I was pissed off. We had a beautiful night of kool-aid and conversation. Didn’t that warrant him asking for my phone number? Apparently not.

When you ask him, he says he was going to get my phone number from a friend and call me out of the blue. I ended up thinking he was a jerk, so you can see how well his ploy worked.

He finally got his head out of his butt and called me. He asked me to go to his fraternity’s Fall party with him, and for some reason I said yes. It must be because he is unbelievably gorgeous. I can’t resist him.

I prepared for the big night with great care. I picked out an ensemble that was sexy, yet casual, after all we were going to a place that had a field, bonfire and barn structure for dancing. I show up, and he has a pelt for me to wear.

Did I mention the party had a Viking theme? Yeah. And who is going to say no to their hot date when they ask them to wear a shapeless, grey pelt on top of their sex kitten outfit? Not this girl. I threw that pelt on like it was me who suggested wearing it.

Here I am, proudly pelted and making the rounds with my date’s friends. He goes to introduce me to one of those friends, and calls me, “Erin.”

My name is not Erin, it’s Carrie.

Not only have I been pelted, but I’ve been called by the wrong name. The whole hot and adorkable thing can only go so far. This date is not ending with sex. Or even a blowjob.

Later he finally admitted to being terrible with names. He thought mine was spelled Keri, and when that didn’t immediately leap to his lips, he said all he could remember was “Eri” and thus, my name became Erin. Uh huh.

The date got better after that. It had to, right? We had great conversation, we danced and snuggled by the bonfire.

Later, I was busting a move with one of the fraternity brothers when he unceremoniously reached out and grabbed my boobs.

What the hell? I have now been pelted, called by the wrong name and felt up by one of my date’s friends. Now the man is not even getting a handjob.

I was more than a little drunk when I was groped so I completely lost my crackers. I was blindly running in the direction of my pelted partner when I slipped in a puddle of beer, lost my balance and fell, sliding shin-first into a table. My husband stared at me agape as I tried to gracefully stand up and smooth out my hair. It was not one of my finer moments, and I could feel my cheeks turning a bright red.

Are you keeping track? Pelted, name forgotten, felt up, and bruised.

It turns out that many women were given breast exams that night and frankly, I was a little insulted. I had great boobs back then and they shouldn’t have been relegated to one set in a pack of racks.

Somehow, I found it in my heart to overlook a comically bad first date with my husband to have a second date, a third date, and a lifetime of memories with him. Mostly because he’s hot, but also because he got rid of that ugly pelt.

Getting Pelted By My Husband first appeared on Ponies and Martinis.