​A while back, someone had asked how I'd met my husband. It's a bit of a story, so kick back and enjoy. Here's my "meet cute"!!

However many years ago, I was working in a tiny rural mountain town west of the Mississippi. One of the perks of this particular location was a local ski area nearby. It was so close, that I could ski and take hospital call at the same time. #winning

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As you may know, when it comes to chairlifts, there is a line for groups of 2 or 3 or 4 (depending on lift size and group sizes), and then there is the 'singles line' for -- you guessed it -- people skiing/snowboarding solo. (Side note: if you want to cut down on waiting in line, even if you're with friends, the singles line is usually quickest.) Anyway, as I'd done with many days, I got into the singles line and a dude joined me on the lift. I said my obligatory "How it's going" and apparently that was all it took. The conversation floodgates opened.

​​Pull up a chair, my friends. I’m going to tell you a story. It’s the story of how Hubs and I met. Pretty much encapsulates our entire lives together.
 
It was a cold but sunny February day in a cold area of the country, and I was skiing that day while on call because…I like to tempt fate. (Hey, at reckless speeds, I could go from the top of the mountain to the hospital in 25 minutes, so…close enough.)
 
As per usual, I got in the “Singles” line of the ski lift. You know, the line where you’re skiing alone? Fine. Also, the Singles line because, a few years earlier, I had gladly jettisoned Bad Decision from my life. And had no intention of attempting any more Decisions for a long, long time.
 
So, this guy also got on the lift with me because…singles line. He had a snowboard attached to his foot. Strike one. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over his thermal shirt. (It >was< a sunny day, but really? Hello, overkill.) Strike two. A helmet and reflective goggles completed the ensemble. Okay, I’d spot him those items, because…safety first.

What dudes see. (and what they don't see)

Here's the scene: I'm working late, hubs is at home waiting for a Handy Guy to come over and give us a quote for repairs.

My text: Please make sure personal stuff and mess is picked up before Handy Guy comes by

His text: Roger.


I come home after Handy Guy has left. In my bathroom is the untouched mess of hair product, hairdo electronic implements, and assorted anti-old age goops. Oh, and my Pill package is wrapped up inside a crumpled towel. Ah yes, he has removed the offending Personal Item from view but left the messy stuff out. Sigh.  Good job.

Then, as I walk back through the bedroom, I see it: 2 bras and several undies. Just sitting on the dresser in plain sight. Super obvious. Yup.


When asked to describe the logic behind the choices made, hubs said, "I didn't see the clothes."

Right there. Plain sight.

But thank God the prescription was hidden...

Hubby and I were playing the hypothetical/impossible game of ‘what if’ a few nights ago.
 
To understand how ridiculous the game is, let’s call the proverbial spade a spade: Hubs and I are a short and stumpy match made in heaven. While we like to imagine that once upon a time we were ‘elite athletes’, the reality is much different. We’re okay with that fact.
 
But for funsies, let’s go through the list and see what sports might net these two hobbits a gold medal!
 
#1) Archery: Not really. I can’t hit a fly with an oversized flyswatter, and hubs would kill himself with the compound bow.
 
#2) Rowing: While it’s a point of dubious pride that I have pretty amazing, flabby man-arms, it’s a foregone conclusion that a few rows with the oars and I’d be done. Snack, please.

Please understand that my hubby hates shopping with a rabid, seething hatred the likes of which can only be imagined by mere mortals. And if you say anything about either shopping for or wearing a tie, his entire face will split down the middle, his head will rotate and the fires of hell will spew forth from his mouth.
 
So, it’s not a great idea, bringing up shopping, much less for normal, everyday clothing. But now we have a Family Trip coming up, with parents, aunts, and uncles, and it involves wearing more than camos and plaid shirts. (Yeah. He wears plaid and camo. Together. This is what I have to work with, folks. It’s not pretty.) 

​Just completed a cross-country move 1500 miles from one end of the Earth to a new rural practice/group at the other end of the Earth. At least I'm consistent -- I do enjoy rural medicine. And a new adventure is always fun.

But phew, I'm pooped. It's not my first rodeo with the whole moving thing, but every time there's a big life change, there must be lessons, right? Here goes....

#10) 2 drivers + 2 cars is much harder than 2 drivers + 1 car. Especially traveling through major metro areas together. Note to self: automatically add 20% drive time when it's 2 cars.

#9) One cannot sustain road rage for 1500 miles. Not without precipitating an aneurysm.

#8) Kitties + traveling = tranquilizer. And not for the animals.

#7) There really ARE millions of different combinations of Subway sandwiches!

#6) 2 Subway sandwiches/day x 4 days = unique GI consequences.

#5) Driving 10 hours/day does not feel the same now as it it did when I was 20 and invincible. Now I say things like "dadgum sciatica" and "I have to pee AGAIN?" and "my dyspepsia is firing up again" (see item 6). Yeah, fabulous.

​So hubby and I signed up for an "active" vacation in Canada. Hiking each day in fresh air, meeting the locals, eating fabulous fresh meals. And my parents would come along as well. What could possibly go wrong?

A few caveats, because I feel the need to defend myself before I perform the analysis of a some very bad decision making.

Hubs and I are not slouches. In fact, we're training for a 1/2 marathon and can easily run 10 miles. The glossy trip brochure was not specific as to the schedule -- had the torment been detailed, we wouldn't have gone. The trip leaders were super nice people who worked hard all week long -- it's not their fault. And finally, I started the trip exhausted. A colleague went on emergency leave, and I picked up a week of Ob/c-section call the week prior to this trip, and in fact was on call up until midnight prior to leaving, which is not the optimal way to begin a vacation. I get that. No one's fault. The fault was signing up in the first place.

With that having been said, I give you: The Great Canadian Death March -- otherwise known as a week of adult summer camp minus arts/crafts and daily nap time.

​In a rare un-medical post and an even rarer girly girl post, I need to talk about shopping. Need. To.

Don't get met wrong, I loved the ECWC. http://gsrwa.org/ecwc/conference/ Loved it. But I won't lie, there's this big ol' mall right across the road from the hotel. With *fancy* stores and all. And on the other side of the hotel? A Barnes and Noble. A real one. With books. You know, with the book-smell and everything.

So what is this shopping that I speak of?

Let me put this in perspective. If you were to drive to the end of the world, then go another hour, you're getting close to where I live. My street address doesn't mapquest well. And that's cool, because normally online shopping works just fine.

But to be there in person? In a mall? In a big book store? HEAVEN.

My husband has an app on his phone that buzzes every time there's a charge on our credit card. So I could just imagine him getting mildly electrocuted every half hour or so while I was burning up the sales. His face going EERGH, MRRPH, TWAACK.