How It All Began

It all began in a little pub, in a little corner of London, where a not-so-little girl from the Midwest met a very-much-not-so-little-boy from that very same corner of London.

Awwwww. If only the rest of the story was that quaint.

In truth, it's a little more 'real life' than that. A year and a half earlier, I had spent a semester in London with 40 other American students, and fell in love with the city. I wanted to see what it was like to 'really' live there, so the summer before my final semester, I got a student work visa and went. I was 22, had a plane ticket and a place to sleep the first 3 nights. No friends, no job, no place to live. Somehow, though, I wasn't as scared as I should have been. Let me rephrase that. I wasn't yet as scared as I should have been.

Unknown to me, at the same time, there was this tall, buzz-cut blonde rugby player working in a retail sports outlet in a shopping mall, looking for some pub work in the evenings. Thanks to some connections, he learned of an opening in a pub close to the house he was sharing with friends. Apparently, all he needed to do was show up one evening and meet the owner, and the job was his. Piece of cake.

Back to me for a minute. Also unknown to me, I had arrived in London on the Friday before a Bank Holiday weekend. That meant that for the next 3 days, I had virtually no way of looking for a job. All I could do was spend money on my accommodation and not open any doors towards employment. Having said that, I was offered a job on the spot at Harrod's, but for a bizillion financial reasons, that wasn't a good option. Still, I walked out of that string of interviews being able to say 'I was offered a job at Harrod's on my first attempt, jet-lagged and all.'

Welcome the next week of Hell for me. I moved myself and all my luggage into 3 different hostels in the area, some of them of very questionable repute. I choose not to think about how creepy some of those situations were, but let's just say I slept with my little bag of passport and money knotted tightly around the bedpost, my wrist, and tucked under my pillow. I'm also pretty certain I slept with both eyes open and one leg out of the bed, ready to bolt in a heartbeat. Meanwhile, job offers were pouring in, but for one reason or another, really would not have worked out for me. And I'm only talking pub work and hostel reception .... not exactly rocket science! That increased my list of 'I could have worked here' places to include South Kensington and Covent Garden, in addition to Harrod's in Knightsbridge. But it wasn't working out. I was hemorrhaging money and had no prospects of a suitable job. It was tough, it was lonely, it was damn infuriating.

The rugby player, on the other hand, was living the Life of Riley. While out to lunch at the pub across the street from the mall one day, his manager said 'You're in here all the time. Why don't you ask if they're looking for any help?' So between his Blazing Chicken Fillet Burger and pint (or two) of Kronenburg, he found the energy to ask for an application form. Completed it, returned it, accepted the job. Because he couldn't be bothered to stop any pub where his backside wasn't currently planted on a sofa, he got a job. Nice for some.

Then providence stepped in. I was in what felt like my 100th hostel, reading a book I'd purchased on a whim, when I finally looked up and said damn near shouted 'Fine! I give up! I'll stop fighting! I'm clearly no good at this, so how about YOU show me how clever you are at fixing this mess! Yeah, I'll make the damn phone calls. Yeah, I'll pound the blinkin' pavement. I'll go through all the motions of doing what I'm supposed to do .... but I'm leaving it up to your know-it-all self to make it right. So there!' Hey, I never said I was glamorous about it.

The next day, at the office for the students on the work visa program, a live-in pub job came in while I was there. I'd been there 6 minutes. All the phones were taken, so I scribbled down the info and ran down four flights of stairs, up the street two blocks to the nearest payphone, and called. I was at the pub within and hour. 30 minutes later, I was offered the job. I moved in 3 days later. It happened. I was safe.

My first shift was the same night as the second shift of the rugby player. Happily ever after from there, right?

Um, no. Not quite.

Did I forget to mention the little glitch that both of us were dating other people at the time? Oops. In my defense, I always knew the guy I was seeing wasn't 'the one'. I knew I didn't want Forever with him. But we'd crossed paths about 5-6 months earlier when my life had suddenly taken a severe turn for the worse, and we simply had fun together. We laughed, shared a lot of common interests, treated each other well, and just enjoyed spending time together. I knew for a fact he wasn't the one I wanted to stroll into the sunset with, children tagging along behind. Does this lessen my evil-ness at all? And as for the rugby player....well, I can't officially speak to his feelings about his girlfriend at the time, but let's just give the Cliff's Notes version and say it was pretty clear that wasn't going anywhere either. And yet, we still took over a month to get together.

The work culture at the pub was a Work Hard / Play Hard environment. Some days we'd work split shifts of 10am-4pm AND THEN 6pm-midnight on our feet serving drinks and lugging crates of wine up 150-year-old flights of stairs.....yeah, we darn well sat down afterwards for a few drinks. There were those who even managed to drink all of their earnings, not seeing a penny at payday, but having really enjoyed themselves throughout the week! I wasn't impressive like that, but would sit down to unwind....at midnight .... with the manager and a core group of about 5-6 after-hours diehards ..... and sometimes would only be reminded that we should go to bed when we saw that the sun was rising. Oops.

The rugby player was one of that core group.

So we chatted. Evenings on end, long into the wee hours of the morning, drinking and playing ridiculous games like Pub Golf. But still, he had someone, and so did I. I honestly didn't think it went any further than a fun person at work.

Until one day, while I was working in the kitchen on lunch shift, the assistant manager said 'I think he's a bit sweet on you.' I nearly dropped the sausages-n-mash. 'What?! No he isn't!' but I couldn't wipe the dopey grin off my face. Even though it never once crossed my mind for even a fraction of a second, I suddenly couldn't stop the butterflies in my stomach. From that moment on, I was all 'twitter-pated' (extra credit points to those of you who can source that reference) and every encounter from then on was somehow much more than just a fun person at work.

Surely, happily ever after from then, right? Not yet.

The trouble is (current boyfriends/girlfriends aside) the both of us were far too shy to do anything about it. We spent the next couple weeks playing this crazy game of flirting and fighting and doing just about everything possible except admit we were interested in each other. And the managers were getting fed up with it. There was a house rule that only the live-in staff were allowed to sleep there .... but they made an exception for the rugby player ... just to try to force the issue. Of course they also made it be known they felt it only made sense for him to sleep in my room. All well and good until the night of the staff BBQ when he got so drunk I pretended to fall asleep in a desperate attempt to get him to shut up and stop talking to me. Ahhhh, don't all great romances start with stories like that?

Then it came. D-Day. After closing one night, the manager and his assistant sat me down and said (and this is almost verbatim): 'Okay, we've had enough. It's obvious you two like each other, but we're sick of seeing you guys not do a %&£$ thing about it. Here's the deal. You have 24 hours to start something on your own, or we're starting it for you.'

Me: 'What?!'

Them: 'You heard us. 24 hours. Tick tock.'

Me: 'But .... but .... but ..... what am I supposed to do? Isn't that the guy's job?' (as my equal-rights soul suffered a mild stroke)

Them: 'Oh please, you don't really think he's going to make the first move, do you?! Nope, this one's all on you girlie. And you now have ...... 23 hours and 58 minutes. Tick tock.'

Ho.ly. Crap. I don't know how to do this! I'm the one who's always painfully shy around guys! I'm the skittish deer! I wouldn't know how to accomplish this any more than a napkin could play a piano! And they're only talking about kissing him ..... but I still can't do even that! Arrrrgggghhhhhh!!!!!!

But I did. I figured out a way, and I did. As we were on Pub Time, that meant 'date #1' was after hours the next evening, just within the 24-hour time limit. After date #2 (after hours the following evening), the thought occurred to me 'If I married him, I wouldn't have to leave him.' No joke, after date #2. And I can tell you exactly where I was standing when that thought hit me knocked me over. Later that shift, as I was pouring a Caffrey's from the farthest tap on the left (yup, I remember it that much), I saw a vision of him in a white tuxedo. Finally, the happily ever after.

Oh wait, I was leaving to go back to the States in three weeks. And I hadn't told anyone yet. Including the rugby player. How the %&£$ do I manage this???

Cliff's Notes: I told him, he promised to come after me. I made up a lie to the pub manager so that I could come back and work the following spring/summer (I'd told a teensy weensy little fib to get the job in the first place because I thought I wouldn't be hired if they knew I was only available for 3 months; I later learned that wouldn't have been the case). Three weeks later, we were in a hotel at Heathrow counting down the hours until my flight in the morning.....and talking about getting married.

Somewhere, I have a picture that a very lovely man in the airport took of us, both with red puffy faces from crying. He looked at the rugby player and said 'What the hell are you doing, letting her get on a plane? Just marry the girl already!'

A year and a half later, a year and a half of seeing each other sporadically, a year and a half of weeks/months on and even longer months off, a year and a half of international phone calls and handwritten letters weekly, a year and a half of physically being in each others' presence only a grand total of (almost) eight months ..... he did 'marry the girl already.'

Ten years later, here we are.

Happy Anniversary, my blonde, buzz-cut rugby player. Here's to the next great decade.


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Now for the fun stuff: PICTURES!!!

Yes, we're wearing the same outfit, and no, it's not because we were that sickeningly sweet. It's because we'd just finished the closing shift at the pub .... everyone wore those blue shirts! The other pictures are not from London, we're just pretty darn cute in them.

Fun pictures from when he came to visit me for three months over my college/university graduation. And for my European friends, if any of you say 'Oh my gosh, you look so American!' I think I will have to slap you. You sometimes forget, I AM American! (love you all, really)

My yummy Brit trying on his tux

I thought this cop was coming to site me for prostitution as I walked around with a great big 'Suck for a Buck' sign on a balloon. But no. He just wanted to (very slowly) purchase two lollipops off my chest. What was I going to do, say no?!

The rehearsal dinner. My wonderful Japanese friend hand-made the bouquet for us (later to be seen on our table at the wedding)

My gorgeous girlies, who travelled from far corners of the US

And Big Chief's fantastic fellas, who travelled from both England and Australia

Not to mention these beauties who came all the way from Japan to be with us!

I never know there was such a thing as a 'Groom's Cake' until the baker asked if we wanted one. At first I thought 'What a ridiculous way to get us to part with more money', but then I thought 'Who cares? It means more cake!' Besides, not only was she able to make the most wonderful chocolate cake with the first icing I've ever liked in my entire life, but she was also able to take the caricature we'd hired an artist to create depicting the Statue of Liberty marrying Big Ben and put it on the cake (we also hired that artist to 'work' the wedding, drawing caricatures of any guest who wanted it...how fun is that?!)

Us in our stunning white with the beauty of the tropical plants in the background. We got married in an indoor, glass-domed botanical garden, complete with waterfall, mini river, and koi carp. Who needs to buy flowers when we had this for our scenery? (once night fell, it was all stars and candlelight .... so pretty)
The book in my hand is a Lutheran bible that my great-great-great (something) grandmother brought over on the boat from Sweden. The inscription inside reads May 1856, and it has been passed down through the generations to the women in our family. My mother carried it in her wedding, and I think my grandmother did as well. We can't read it (it's in Danish) and it's falling apart, but darn it, we'll carry it in our weddings!

Cheetos and a kimono. Just what every wedding needs.

How cute are these little stinkers?!

One last chance for my girls to grope Big Chief and for his boys to sneak a peek down my cleavage.

Our very own private table, which allowed us a whole ...... um ..... 4 minutes together throughout the entire evening. Oh well, take what you can get.

Damn, our cake was good. No, I mean really good. Two layers of rich chocolate with raspberry filling, and two layers of zingy lemon with raspberry filling. There were no leftovers. Like I would even consider leaving something like that in the freezer for a year! The only downside was that the level of scrumminess was what kept me from smashing a chunk of it all over Big Chief's face. I so desperately wanted to do that, but couldn't justify wasting such beautiful cake. Damn!

This is the only non-obscene pose Aunt Naughty put the table decorations in (once again, Statue of Liberty and Big Ben), and darling Katie feeling slightly less than lady-like.

Hard to tell who was having more fun, he who caught the garter, or she who had it put on her.

The happy couple