Nobody Ever Asks That Question

  Remember back one day, long ago, when you were just a twenty-three year old girl and you were by profession waiting on tables at the local café and you happened upon that table in the window with those three guys, one wearing a Mexican styled woven jacket, resembling a certain movie star from, 'A Fist full of Dollars' and there was a certain something about this guy's voice and a certain something about this guy's everything, that it had you stopping by this guy's table to top off his cup of coffee every ten minutes? Something so significant about this guy that after work and then picking up your three month old bundle of joy from the sitter and then pulling that suffocating nursing bra out your sleeve with one hand still on the steering wheel, your thoughts drifted back to that guy at that table in the window? Something you couldn't put your finger on still as you pulled into your driveway and your heart stopped when you spotted that same guy on the roof of what had been the vacated house next door to yours.  That house that your Dad thought was condemned when he saw it.  It was that same guy kneeling on that roof, who'd been jumbling up your thoughts all day since he'd uttered nothing more than, "No thank you," and he'd held his calloused hand over his cup to keep you from ruining his perfectly sweetened to perfection cup of java? Remember that?


"Excuse me," I said as casually as possible, holding my infant in my arms and squinting into the sun. Clint Eastwood looked down at me from where he stood. Before running into my house, I managed to stammer, "My husband has lots of doors and windows for sale, if you need anything." This story sounds like it could be heading in the wrong direction. IT IS. But I like to write funny things. So, let us fast forward six years to 1986, after the storm, when Sven and I, along with our three children, all of us dressed in our best are standing in the back yard at my parents' home, with family and a few close friends, all gathered for our wedding ceremony. When you have a certain something for a certain someone and you are twenty nine years old there are certain things that you can overlook, like say for instance, if your man comes home from the dump with more shit than he left with.  If his truck has weeds growing out of the cracks in the upholstery. If he receives a standing ovation at a restaurant for the pile of bones on the plate in front of him and he's covered in so much BBQ sauce that he's unrecognizable. If the kids slip into Acoma as he tells them how the solar system works when all they did was point out the big dipper. If he doesn't put his dirty clothes into the very chute that he made, but leaves them on the floor right next to it. If he leaves yellow work gloves scattered about the house like bread crumbs to show where he's been. BLATZ BEER. If he insists on putting flour and fish that has  been coated with egg and milk into a paper bag that he does not check for holes and then shakes it with a vengeance. If he always turns a pan of grease on high and then tests to see if it's hot enough, by flicking water beads into it thus, splattering the walls. If he tries to impress you with his favorite book and has to blow an inch of dust into the air just so that you can make out that the author is Iasac Asimov. If he always forgets to zip the tent screen door shut.  And even if he is too stingy to part with not more than ten lumps of charcoal to grill a steak, you still have a certain something about him. And do you know why these things can be overlooked? Because Sven looks like this

Because he looks like this.

The good news is, in this story you will not be hearing about any tiny faults that Sven might think, that I might have. So, when we stood there in the back yard on that warm August afternoon taking our vows............... "Do you, Millie and Sven, promise to love and to cherish each other, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?" And we both said, "I do." I wonder what would have happened if some tougher questions had been raised. Like, if he would have asked, "Will you, Millie, love Sven when he brings more shit home from the dump than he left with?" I would have said, "Yes." "Will you, Millie, take this man, Sven, to be your lawful wedded husband, even after he repeatedly forgets to zip the tent door shut?" I would have said, "Yes,  but I am going to want my own tent." "Will you, Millie, love Sven, till death do you part, even on the day that you look out your window to see this?" three cement mixersthree cement mixersthree cement mixers I believe I would have said,


But you see..... Nobody ever asks that question. Nobody ever thinks that three cement mixers will be the, till death do you part, part of a marriage. Most people don't think about cement mixers at all. Luckily, I, me, Millie Noe, am adaptable and I am able to accept Sven and all of his excuses. Apparently, the reason one needs three used cement mixers is because two will be used for spare parts on the one that someday will work.   Duh.  


A word of advice for all of you young brides out there.

If your dude is frugal and has this kind of a grin,

keep in mind the following rules:



[one_half_last]wedding day[/one_half_last] Never hurt anybody. Never feel sorry for yourself. And when you end up with too many cement mixers.

Just do this.

  concrete mixer


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