Misery Loves Company

Misery loves company, so the story goes. It can be the millionaire that can’t buy love or the single mother with a box of Hamburger Helper with no hamburger. Or, it just might be like these two people…

Charice wore a bell-shaped dress with a gathered waistline and a snug fitting bodice. Its black color expressed her sorrow for the loss of her dear friend and the tone of her soul. From the tears that she cried you’d think that this man was a son, brother or a long, lost rich uncle. Her long fingers held a damp monogrammed cloth. Every couple of minutes she’d prevent another tear from landing at her feet. I watched her from the lobby of the funeral parlor knowing that she didn’t feel like her condolences were enough to comfort the man’s family. Every time someone would pass her to pay their last respects, she’d have another droplet of sadness decorate her already beautiful blue eyes.

Through my grief, personal heartbreak and being at the wrong end of the rainbow, I saw an angel. I guess it is true that everything does happen for a reason. I was paying respects and making sure that my ex-wife’s bloodsucking lawyer was actually deceased. Not that my alimony payments were going to stop because he was six feet under.

To prove to you that I, Roger E. Grooper, doesn’t prey on women at funerals, I didn’t approach this heavenly blonde angel for a couple of days. I steeled myself to wait for her so I could follow her home, to work the next morning and then back home the following night.

Those hours I spent in my car, just out of reach of this saintly creature, were spent with visions of her in my head. I ran my cumbersome fingers through her waist length golden tresses, sailed ships in her deep blue eyes, and I walked through the sands of time on her hourglass figure. She was everything my ex-wife wasn’t. Now if she could only cook.

In the days from the first vision until the day I gathered up what was left of my self-respect and charm, I filed through her mail, dove into her garbage and peeked into her windows. I collected a lot of knowledge about Charice.

From her postal box I saw her magazine subscriptions, book of the month club and some of her musical tastes. She was an aspiring writer with a wide variety of musical likes; from Abba to ZZ Top, and I just knew they were stored in alphabetical order.

From the lack of TV dinners and frozen pizza boxes, I rationalized that she either ate out a lot or she knew her way around a kitchen. When I looked into her streak-free windows I got the impression she knew how to use a vacuum, could dust and that she wasn’t allergic to Windex.

She was a safe driver and she showed no signs of “road rage”. I stumbled onto this quality when she inadvertently forgot to use her turn signals as I tried to pass her.

It was a Tuesday, six days after my dreams of her started. I swallowed my pride, borrowed my mom’s blue Cavalier, her retirement fund money, and dress clothes from my father. I stopped at the florist that was conveniently located between my bedroom at my parents’ mobile home and Charice’s Colonial style house. There I placed all of my mother’s savings, all thirty-nine dollars and fifteen cents down on the counter and told the lady I wanted the best for my girl.

This flower artist scoffed at me when I proudly ran my fingers over this pile of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies as I proclaimed that money was no object. She sure took her time; four times, to count my money. By the time I left with the fancy floral arrangement the sun was in the process of relenting the sky to the man in the moon.

Back in my mother’s car I tuned the radio to the nightly love show. This woman deejay knew how to build my confidence with the extended choice of music. Her song list included songs like “Every Breath You Take,” “Invisible” by Clay Aiken and “You Were Meant For Me” by Jewel. Although it was hours since I last followed her, Sting’s lyrics still put me in my watchful reverie.

I parked the Chevy Cavalier in the same place where I parked my battered Toyota Corolla only hours before. Charice’s Saturn sat in its daily resting place. I felt her presence in that gold; halo gold, car. I remembered the first time I saw this car I thought there was a vanity license plate that read, “GR8 WMAN”. This was just my imagination even though what I dreamed came to pass.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts, practiced what I wanted to say while looking into the rearview mirror. There was a handsome man; a man who shared the same dazzling features as me. My wheat colored hair was perfect, my white teeth sparkled like thirty-two stars in a constellation, and my blue eyes had a gleam of more than hope and love. What woman in their right mind could resist a man like me?

One last important thing I had to check before I stepped out of the car… I had to check my breath by cupping both of my hands over my mouth and nose, blowing out into my palms and at the same time sniffing the air. Luckily for me, mom had those one-calorie breath mints behind her visor. I popped three into my mouth.

It was time for me to grab the bouquet and introduce myself to my earthbound angel. The walk to the front door seemed longer than the other times I was close to her house. This must be true love. Why else would poets and songwriters write about how time stops when they are in their lover’s arms.

Music surrounded me as I pushed the button next to the door. It wasn’t angels singing or even harp music. I’m almost positive that it was definitely Beethoven or some other longhaired composer. As soon as the chimes stopped I was greeted with the sound of hard rubber on terra cotta tiles. Even though I knew her feet touched the ground I felt she still floated like an angel.

My plan of announcing my love to Charice continued on and on and on, one heel click at a time. Her footfalls were my cadence. The first click of her heel I bent down on one knee, the next click I positioned the flowers closer to my chest and under my chin. The third click I smiled and looked up to the fisheye security lens. On the next tap of her heel I swallowed my butterflies and hoped that the oak door would open so our hearts could speak to each other.

Silence…

My ears strained to hear another sound. I heard my heart flutter. My mind echoed my doubts. And I still heard nothing from the other side of that wooden door.

Then all of my worries dissipated, standing just beyond a half opened door stood Charice. She was my angel, the mother of my future children, and another nail in my coffin.

“For you,” I said as I held up the flowers.

She gasped opening her soft ruby colored lips and then she closed her mouth. I heard her swallow hard on what must have been lead in her throat. No smile crossed her lips, no romantic wink of an eye and no flirtatious flip of her long blonde hair. Charice’s whole body swayed as if she were a tall tree in a windstorm.

Grasping on to my only chance I spoke these words, “I know you don’t know me, but the last six days I’ve been your shadow. There is something I feel I must do… Charice M. Martin, will you become my wife?”

The windstorm around Charice intensified. She took a few very awkward breaths. Like a marathon runner she breathed in through her nose and out her mouth. These deep breaths didn’t keep her body from swaying. I know she heard and was thinking over my serious question.

“I won’t promise you the moon, a rose garden or even designer checkbook covers, but…” my heart poured out, “I promise you that we won’t have to live with my parents for very long. I convinced them they’d be better off in one of those assisted living retirement homes.

“I won’t drink all of your Gevalia coffee. I won’t read your Writer’s Digest in the bathroom until after you’ve read it and I’ll even serenade you with love sonnets.”

Charice reached out for a large column that is a trademark for Colonial houses, found no air in her lungs, no strength in her knees and no light in her eyes. Like a ton of feathers she fell to the ground. I wouldn’t be the man that I am today if I didn’t indulge every woman who collapsed in front of me with a little mouth-to-mouth action.

If I fell into a dream that afternoon, please don’t wake me now. Her lips were as soft as I imagined, her breath tasted of honey. When she regained consciousness, I felt her long arms around my neck pulling me closer to her. She devoured me as I savored her.

When she broke our embrace to speak, Charice exposed me to her most endearing cherubic quality, her spiritual voice. If the air around us was a music staff, then her words were the notes to a medley of love songs. With only one word she suspended the air in my lungs and that word was “Yes”.

I nearly fainted, but I was able to pinch myself, and it hurt.

Charice, like any normal person, questioned my trustworthiness. She asked me tough questions about why I investigated from afar. I told her it was love at first sight. She began to tear up when I described what I saw across the soft, depressed lighting at her friend’s funeral. A smile crossed her lips when I said that I was too much of a gentleman to allow myself to approach her in her time of grief.

My angel told me about her life, the life of a lonely writer who only put her dreams of love on paper. She compared her existence to a vacuum. She believed love would always come knocking on her door and then she would experience her utopia in a strong, sensitive and handsome man’s arms. I heard her tell me what she saw when she looked through her peephole and saw me. Her description of me was even better than mine.

“King Arthur’s Guinevere had Sir Lancelot for her champion. The Von Trapp family had the ‘Sound of Music’. Dorothy had ruby slippers and a dog named Toto, Charice said, “I had a frog prince in a white dress shirt and a floral tie carrying a bouquet, a promise of a wedding ring and his mother’s dark blue Chevy…

“But you were so adorable on bended knee. I found comfort in your sapphire blue eyes, friendly smile and golden hair. There was a soothing aura surrounding you. I also recognized you as the driver who nearly ran me off the road the other day. When I saw the flowers I thought you were here to apologize for that.”

It was my turn for the labored breathing and the wobbly knees.

These nervous confessions were the start of a beautiful relationship. Charice and I spent our non-date nights and alternate weekends on the phone making plans for the perfect storybook wedding. We had a few months between the wedding proposal, the bachelorette party and the actual day of white dresses, tuxedos and wedding rings.

I have to admit; I didn’t think we’d ever get married. We both had our moments of cold feet and nervous stomachs. This was my third marriage and Charice’s first. Even though I’ve been down the aisle a couple of times before I knew that love wasn’t the reason I got married. It was always the father’s money (my first wife’s father collected Social Security but drove a nice Cadillac and the second wife’s father actually managed a rock and roll group. They were a one hit blunder)

With those two experiences under my belt I decided getting rich by marrying some old guy’s daughter wasn’t for me. I stuck to honest work; I was a door-to-door salesman until my obsession of peaking into windows took control of my life. Being chased by a shotgun, a pack of bloodthirsty Dobermans and an old bat with a broom was another way not to make a quick buck. Running with those sample kits or vacuum cleaners was almost like being married. I think you know what I’m talking about, the lead ball around your ankle that the little woman at home controls the key.

But Charice was special. She didn’t demand much of me; she was independent, self-sufficient, neat, tidy, clean, and didn’t like to nag. Her daily routine never changed. There was a time and place for everything. The car was washed on Saturday, the laundry done on Sunday night. She had a menu magnet board on her refrigerator, which included a sandwich night and days of the week when it was ok to order in. I was the only unorganized thing in her life and that was the main reason why I wondered what I was doing marrying her.

Charice reassured me it was my living on the edge lifestyle that first attracted her to me. When I started to put some of my quirks in a row in a neat and orderly fashion, she began to worry that she was pushing too much of her influence on me. I have to admit it was nice to be able to open my car door without fast food wrappers and Styrofoam cups falling to the ground. Of course, I have started to take my socks off and throw them on the floor, just so she’ll have something to do.

Those long phone calls to men and women who specialize in weddings were trying my patience. Every time I tried to call Charice her line was busy. One day she’d be talking to the dog trainers looking for a couple of shaggy, white Weiner dogs to race down the aisle as a four-legged bride and groom. I didn’t care for the idea but I couldn’t voice my opinion to her and break her heart after all she told me she didn’t want a normal ceremony.

She also is looked for a photographer who will also jump out of a cake. Charice wanted a bunch of secret, candid photos of her guests. Can we say “Wedded Circus”?

That wasn’t all that she has planned, by no stretch of the imagination. There were the paper carnations constructed by the local Vision Less Center, whom normally made clocks for the well to do businessmen and his family. The caterer practiced the culinary arts in the backroom of a local McDonald’s. He was also nearly brought up on charges for pilfering a hundred pounds of French fries and bendable straws.

Charice had it all planned out. The more I knew the less confident I became, but love is funny that way. It makes you overlook the little things and concentrate on the big things. My cold feet started to warm up when she wanted me to help her pick out the wedding invitations and our China pattern. I didn’t hesitate to get into her halo gold Saturn. It was a fun filled day and we even had time to stop at a nice restaurant on sandwich night. A Taco Bell burrito was surely better that a Potted Meat sandwich and a handful of Lays potato chips.

The wedding drew closer. I heard a couple of Charice’s friends talking about taking her out to a couple of male strip clubs and get her drunk once last time before she had to control the leash around my neck. I once again, secretly, reached into my mother retirement fund cookie jar and handed her friend Sarah a handful of bills and I told her to make sure Charice had a good time.

A month before the wedding Charice came to me and asked me who my best man was going to be. I’m not a man who has many friends, since no one wants me looking into their windows or their medicine cabinet. There was no partner at work I could request to hold the rings and act like one of my old friends. Even in my childhood I was labeled as a loaner, a weirdo, a goof ball and the anti-nerd. Charice said I needed to have someone there to walk down the decorated aisles of the church with her matron of honor. I told her I would find someone just to make her happy.

Three days before the wedding as I was driving home my luck would have me stopped at a red light and there was a grungy old man selling flowers and I asked him what size tux he wore. When he couldn’t tell me I asked him into my car and I took him to Harold’s House of Fashion. It was once a bar that was recently transformed into a tuxedo rental place, tailor and dry cleaners. The mahogany bar still smelled of stale beer and cheap cigars. An old grand piano with a brandy snifter still occupied one corner of the darkened store and the manager of the establishment resembled Paul Newman.

He shuffled his blue suede shoes to within an arms reach of us and introduced himself as Harold. His grip was not that of a person who spent his days sewing on buttons on a two-dollar suit. It was firm and down right uncomfortable.

After Harold made a few measurements on his tape measure, he meandered to the back room and came back with a two suits that would fit the flower salesman. This was the first time I realized I never asked this man his name or if he’d be my best man. His name was Charlie and he really knew his flowers. From fifteen feet away he could tell you if a particular flower was plastic, silk or real.

Charlie was probably younger than his appearance. His salt and pepper hair, mustache and beard projected a man of age and not necessarily wisdom. The grayish blue of his eyes were hidden behind drooping eyelids and worry lines. A premature arch in his spine caused him to lean out over his feet; he was a walking palm tree in a hurricane gust when he walked. When he spoke you could smell the distillery at work amongst the taste buds of his mouth.

With the tux fitting and the search for my best man over with I could concentrate on more important things… the wedding guest list. I’m sure the third love of my life was also going to want a few people on the groom side of the church. I wasn’t going to invite every homeless flower salesmen to the un-society event of the century. With a couple of days before the wedding, I needed to find a few sober, respectful people to pose as my friends. My search took me to a couple of nursing homes and retirement communities and even a K-mart. I wouldn’t ordinarily darken the doors of that large, unfriendly department store but I was desperate. I passed out a few dozen business cards with directions to the church on the back. Fate of who would show up, and how these people would dress, was out of my hands.

The new love and I had one last phone conversation. She talked and I nodded my head and said, “yes” a lot. I can see how she was worried about her wedding plans and making sure that I did my part in following through with the list of instructions she gave me.

September and the day of our wedding was now upon us. The sky was nearly cloud free. There was a nice breeze from the west that carried with it the scent of wild flowers and the lovely roses planted near the entrance of the church. Charlie was already there, but he looked like he had worn the tux the night before. It was wrinkled and had a brownish stain on the white ruffled shirt. He was a mess, but I calmly directed him to the men’s room and tried to straighten him up as best I could. Luckily the stain rinsed out with a healthy blast of hot water. The suit itself was a different story. I had hung the jacket on a hanger and run the hot water in all of the four sinks to create enough steam then I held the jacket in the hot spray and tugged hard on the material. Once the fabric started to stretch I put the jacket over the hand dryer while brushing it with my hands. The suit coat wasn’t a perfect fix but it would do. Of course Charlie needed a few gallons of coffee and a long walk.

In the meantime, my makeshift guests started to arrive and luckily many of them dressed according to how you’d want people to when invited to a wedding. There were a couple people I had to turn away at the door; their biker shorts and tattooed bare torsos weren’t going to please Charice.

As the moment for the wedding grew closer I could hear the noises that were familiar to my imagination. The Wiener dogs were barking, the high school band was practicing “Here Comes The Bride” and I could hear the mingling of our guests. I still hadn’t heard, or seen, my bride to be or her processional of ladies. Was I worried that she had come to her senses and skipped out on me? I’d be telling the truth if I had said, “Yes, I was worried” but I was only slightly concerned. Charice was ready to get married, more so than any of my other wives. Her countless hours on the phone talking to bridal stores, dog breeders, cake-jumping photographers, and the McDonald’s catering team showed how much she didn’t want to be an old maid for the rest of her life.

I, as much as Charice, wanted this wedding ceremony, witnessed by friends, family and street urchins, to be beyond a visual spectacle. This, after all, was the joining of two hearts; two lives into one that would change the world forever.

There was a long pause as me and my best man stood up on the platform with the pastor. Every eye in the building watched Charlie as he bent over a flower arrangement and coffee came out of his mouth and nose. I was just glad that he didn’t re-stain his shirt. After another span of time the high school band brought their instruments to the ready position, the crowd was almost all quiet, as the two white, longhaired Dachshunds lined up at the end of the red carpet leading up to the pulpit.

Those dogs were stunning in their cubic zirconium studded collars, their red painted nails and bridal ribbons tied around their ears. They walked down the aisle proudly until one of the guests sitting on the aisle sneezed and lost his toupee. What happened next would be fitting for a Ray Stevens song. Before long, that form-fitted pile of auburn colored hair was torn to shreds and scattered over every pew in the church. Some of the people chuckled, some were amused and the others were stunned.

With lips to horns, hands on drumsticks and cymbals held high in the air the high schoolers started to play. The wedding procession started. They were all family or friends of Charice. The flower girl wore a stunning blue satin dress. She threw flower petals over the hair-covered floor as she walked down the aisle. Following her was the bridesmaids with their male escorts. I kept thinking that this was how my prom was, had I attended. The maid of honor and her husband were the last two people before the father of the bride and Charice. As they stepped up on the platform the band changed their music into the “Wedding March”.

Charice was an angel, sweet and simple. My breath escaped me, I grew weak in the knees for the second time since I met her, and the heartbeat quickened. I was nervous, felt like fainting. Her long, white beaded dress sparkled in the artificial lighting of the church building.

The church was so silent that a mouse could hear the pastor drop a cracker on the carpeted floor and think about an easy meal. Every guest stopped fidgeting on the benches as Charice floated down the aisle. Her father, who was supposed to lead her down the aisle, had a lump stuck in his throat.

The rest of the ceremony was a blur except for the “I do’s” and the two dogs re-entering the chapel barking and yapping, fighting over what was left of the man’s wig. Charice and I were joined together in holy matrimony.

My new mother-in-law finally gathered up those dogs and just in time for the grand finale of the wedding. She was a heavyset woman with a steel jaw and gray eyes. Her purse had so many non-traditional woman items in it that she was branded with the nickname Mrs. Inspector Gadget. Someday I’ll have to ask her why she had a stash of Milk-Bones in her tote bag from Hell… She didn’t even have a dog of her own.

She stepped out of her late model Buick. The perspiration on her floral dress gave her the look of a flower garden with a water feature. She was a fountain of stagnant water and cheap Champaign with a long fluffy white dog under each arm and that huge pocketbook. That was my Charice’s mom and now my mother-in-law. My newly law appointed father was a thin man in stature and personality. After meeting Charice’s parents I had all the proof I needed that opposites do attract or that misery really does love company.

This reception will linger on in the memories of all those K-Mart shoppers for as long as they can remember; I know I won’t soon forget it. Still I’m amazed that Charice didn’t have paid circus performers in our wedding extravaganza. This isn’t to say that we had the biggest show on earth, but nearly the biggest show in Charice’s town.

The VFW hall was decorated with those paper accordion bells, fake white doves and crepe paper streamers. Charice spent a whole ten dollars more on decorations than I did on that first bouquet of flowers. They looked lovely next to the American, MIA/POW and Harley Davidson flags. Each table had complimentary bowls of peanuts and popcorn, which were given to us, the happy couple, as a wedding gift. It is so nice to have friends in such high places.

The cake was a spectacle all by itself. It stood seven foot high, had five tiers from 3 to 5 feet wide and had the structural integrity of a Big Mac in a typhoon. There can only be one Eiffel Tower, one Leaning Tower of Pisa, and one, and luckily only one, torte at this reception. It took 27 gallons of frosting, 38 one-pound bags of M&M’s and 400 candied roses to cover this Styrofoam and pastry monstrosity. It looked like it weighed a ton, at least, and I wasn’t quite sure where we were going to put leftovers. This cake also made 4 pastry chefs want to give up cake decorating for the rest of their lives. Who knew that bakers shop at K-Mart?

Our caterer must have been raiding the McDonald’s private freezer for months. Heart shaped burgers served on bell shaped plates with “M” monogrammed paper napkins. His borrowed deep fryer was producing French fries and Blooming Onions, one right after another. For the tender-toothed crowd there was fruit and nut salads, each in their own container and packed on ice. He even had “Special sauce” in between the bowls of pre-packaged mustard and ketchup. Rounding off the wedding feast was a couple of bowls of pretzels, nacho chips and a seven layered bean dip; the man really thought of everything. His brand new paper-thin plastic apron and a cheesy, un-brushed smile gave the “service with a smile” an undesirable element to an otherwise beautiful spread of munchies. The man even whistled the theme song to “Popeye the Sailor man” while curling down his white sailor hat.

As the band played the quests arrived in a steady procession. It seemed like we had more people wearing Kate Jackson, Martha Stewart and K-Mart brand clothing at this event then who actually were at the wedding. Maybe I shouldn’t have put the directions to the VFW on the back of those hastily printed business card/ wedding invitations. Popeye the caterer had enough food to go around, which was definitely a good thing. I just hope, for his sake, that he kept his receipt for all of this food because I won’t have the time or money to bail him out of jail once the honeymoon starts.

The members of the high school band were the musical entertainment for the reception as well, however they stripped out of their bulky band uniforms and dressed in something less formal… Jean jackets, bow ties, white shirts and Dockers slacks. They even brought out the hair spray and their body jewelry. They played so well together many of the guests said they could play by ear to any song they have ever heard. I think they played by a hearing aid in a remote location, a very remote location.

To say they were terrible would crush a few teenagers’ hearts; after all they did provide a whole new ambiance to our first dance as man and wife. Until this day I didn’t know you could dance to a Nine Inch Nails song, or that they could be played with a Tuba, two French Horns, two Trumpets and a snare drum.

The bandleader grabbed a hold everyone’s attention when he placed the microphone to close to the speaker and the feedback siren echoed off of the VFW walls. “Ladies, Gentlemen and K-Mart shoppers we are gathered here today to wish Roger and Charice a lifetime of love and happiness. To make the official toast is the best man, Charlie. At least I think that is his name. So without any further ado… I’ve always wanted to say that.”

There was silence in the VFW as Charlie wobbled up the two metal stairs to the stage. Some of the patrons made ready to dart towards the raised platform in case the navigation of the up rises proved too much of a chore for the best man. These were friends of Charice; the people who wanted her to be the happiest that she has ever been in her life; the people who didn’t want her “Wedded Circus” to also be the laughing stock of the rituals of marriage.

He stood there, next to the nervous bandleader, swaying and holding onto the flimsy silver colored microphone stand like it was a third leg and arm. With his free arm he extended it out, looked like Babe Ruth calling where he was going to send the next pitch and said, “Fake… Fake… Paper, Silk, paper, tissue paper, more tissue paper, fake.” The man really did know his flowers and, as it turned out, his wigs as well. Some of the more senior members of our wedding party pulled out scarves or extra bobby pins for their hairpieces.

The next thing out of Charlie’s lips was the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard another human being utter. It was Shakespeare, Edgar Allen Poe, and Garfield the Cat wrapped into a three-minute oration on love, relationships, and the price of tea in China. It was a Visa “Priceless” commercial, the McDonald’s “I’m Luvin’ it” slogan and the lyrical writings under a SoBe bottle cap. It was lovely, frightening, and intense and I wish I could remember even a single word of what he said.

Somewhere in the middle of Charlie’s presentation the seven foot, poorly decorated cake started to move. This alone would have made even the sanest of people a little leery of wedding cakes, but unfortunately, this was only the beginning of the chaos that was to be the cake-jumping cameraman.

I don’t know where she found this person but she did. The worst part was the fact that he was a nudist to boot. He brought a new meaning to “Watch the birdie” with his rubber duck tattoo on the one place where sun should never shine.

The man was a walking tribute to dead Rock and Roll stars. A portrait of Jimi Hendrix was on his chest above his heart; Jim Morrison covered the other side. Elvis was on his back. Janis Joplin and Mama Cass were bookends to the Rubber Duck tattoo. Warren Zevon and Roy Orbinson each had a shoulder.

I’m sure some of these pictures will show the older, embarrassed faces of Charice’s grandparents and their friends. The startled, admiring faces of the high school band seeing their rock idols pictures. The looks of contentment on some of the other ladies who want to see the ducky swim in their ponds. Of course there will be a picture or two of my lovely bride with a smile on her face because another part of her wedding plans went off without a hitch.

About 8pm we climbed into my mother’s Cavalier and headed towards our honeymoon.

It was a glorious four days and three nights at The Ripley’s “Believe It or Not” museum in Branson, Missouri. We walked, and talked, among a two-headed cow, a half goat and sheep called a Geep or Shoat. There was so much amongst those misshaped walls that we needed every other minute, that we weren’t joined at the mid-sections, to explore the bizarre, non-commonplace and wacky exhibits.

Three years later, my longest marriage to date, Charice and I are still discovering each other. We have no kids, at least none with two legs, besides those two Dachshunds that Charice named Adam and Eve. To say we our happy is a blatant understatement. I haven’t had the need or urge to peek into any windows the whole time we’ve been together.

This is the real deal. I’ve never felt more in control of my life. The days of door-to-door selling are over; Charice’s dad got me a job as a cable installer.