The Petunia Blossom Returns [Not A Gardening Post]

[This post is of a confusing sexual nature. Only venture ahead if you’re comfortable with sexual confusion.]

Do you remember the story I told you about how my Grandma called vaginas vulvas, fuck it, vajayjays “petunia blossoms“?

Well, I have a continuation to the petunia blossom story. (I was writing about my therapy appointment today, but got too bogged down in it, and decided to go the lighter vajayjay route instead. I strongly recommend this route for any bout of writer’s block.)

My grandmother was rather protective of my petunia blossom. I would say that she wanted all of its petals to remain intact until I said “I do,” but it looks like the flower is just one giant petal, so she wanted its one big petal to remain intact until I said “I do.” (I’m sure one of you flower people can correct me on the proper terminology.)

pink-petuniaGrandma did a great job with her petunia blossom detail up until I was 20. Just when it looked like my petunia blossom was going to whither up and die–judging from the looks I had gotten from my friends over the past two or three years when I revealed that there had been no fertilizing, this was sure to happen soon–Sam came along.

Even though Grandma had tried to push me into asking Sam out (I didn’t) and gave me hell about not kissing him the first two times he tried, when things got more serious and we started spending a lot of time together, she went into super protective mode.

Must. Protect. Petunia. Blossom.

I assured her many times that nothing was going on–and it didn’t for a while. Shortly before the one-year mark of us talking online and dating, I got sick with strep throat. Sam, who was trying to be a good boyfriend, wanted to take care of me.

Big mistake. You don’t take care of Grandma’s sick 20-year-old baby. She takes care of her.

I didn’t care, let ’em fight over who fawned over me the most. I was given all the soda and hot chocolate I could stand, was vaporub’d, force fed cough drops, forced to take my nasty medicine, had my temperature checked every half hour, etc. And then Sam had the brilliant idea to spend the night–he told Grandma he’d sleep on the couch–to keep an eye on me and get me whatever I needed if I woke up in the night.

Yep, all of that for strep throat. Not ebola or something really serious. Where the fuck is that treatment when I’m sick now?!

Well, in the middle of the night, I woke up to hearing them arguing. I was all “whatever” and went back to sleep.

When I woke up later that morning, I woke up to a rather furious Grandma.

Grandma caught Sam “sneaking out of my bedroom” in the middle of the night and accused him of staying there just to have sex. I was mortified. Sam told her that wasn’t true and that he had heard me coughing and had gone in to check on me and was coming out at the same time she had been walking in to check on me, also because she heard me coughing.

(Note: Sam’s amazing hearing ceased to exist when my pregnancy morning sickness occurred in the middle of the night. What a shame.)

So, Grandma called my dad up and told him to get out there because there was a problem. When he walked in, she told him how Sam had stayed overnight to keep an eye on me while I was sick and that she caught him sneaking out of my room and that we were obviously having sex.

My mortification reached epic proportions.

“Is that true?” my dad asked Sam and me, although he seemed rather mortified himself, as well as unclear on why he was being asked to intervene in his almost 21-year-old daughter’s alleged sex life. Sam, who was 26 at the time, was probably regretting the whole “date a younger girl” thing.

“No,” I told him. I pointed out that I had strep throat, and obviously, who would have sex while being sick with strep throat? (I later learned that strep throat or other illnesses don’t necessarily mean no sex.)

“No!” Sam said, with such a pitiful look on his sex-deprived face that it convinced my dad immediately that nothing had happened.

“Ask them if they’re having sex at all then,” Grandma said.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad more uncomfortable.

“No!” I exclaimed. This was true–if we can mix a flower metaphor with a sports metaphor, Sam had only made it to third petal. Venturing beyond that wouldn’t happen for a couple more weeks.

“Okay,” my dad said. “Mama, nothing happened.”

My grandma sat in her recliner just steaming mad. “I know it did.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips together. There was no convincing her otherwise–even when she brought it up after I had been married for a year and I told her she had been wrong, she still didn’t believe me.

So, if any of you guys out there have wonderful intentions and want to show your girlfriends how awesome you are by taking care of her when she’s sick–rethink that shit if she’s living with her grandma. You don’t want to be getting in a turf war with a grandmother. It won’t end well. Drop off some chicken soup and a movie and leave.


I Want You To Give Me A _______

[A conversation I had in the comments section with another blogger got me to thinking about a dance I attended in middle school and how that dance led to an interesting series of events.]

In the eighth grade, I went to the Valentine’s Day dance. Near the end of the dance, one of my friends took it upon herself to pair off all of her wallflower friends. And not only did she do that, she decided that we all needed to kiss as well.

I hadn’t kissed a boy at that point, nor did I really want to, but I closed my eyes and let it happen. Ew, I thought at the time (and still do).


After that one peck on the lips, Andrew went out to the lobby and bought all of the Valentine’s Day items that were being sold to give to me, much to my discomfort. He asked for my phone number, which I gave him, and then told all his friends that he now had a girlfriend.

Andrew was–and is–a nice guy. Super nice, even. We dated on and off from eighth grade until my freshman year of college. I broke up with him multiple times each year when he started trying to get too serious, so after doing the math, that has to be some kind of record.

The Monday after the dance, he was waiting for me at the lockers and grabbed my hand. Hand-holding was a sign that things were official. We walked 20 feet to my classroom before he shoved a note in my hand and left to go to his own class.

I opened up the note, which gushed over my eyes and how happy he was to finally have a girlfriend. I didn’t know what to make of it all. Over the next couple of weeks, after more hand-holding sessions that lasted upwards of 30 seconds at a time, the notes got more serious:

E, I can’t wait for us to graduate high school and spend our lives together. We’ll get married and then have kids…

Say what?

clinteastwooddrinkingcoffeedisgusted (1)

I told my friend that paired us off to tell him that we had broken up. He was pretty upset.

In ninth grade, he asked me out again, and I accepted. There was even more hand-holding than in eighth grade, since we were no longer confined to a single hallway and had 10-minute breaks between classes. But once again, the notes got serious after a couple weeks and referenced our future children, so I wrote him a note telling him we were done.

This is the way it went up until college. Sometimes we’d last for up to two months at a time before the love, marriage proposals, and future children were brought up. I had no interest in love, marriage proposals, or children. Each time I would tell him that I didn’t want to be that committed or whatever, but it never failed to come up. He was such a sweet guy and I really enjoyed hanging out with him (it didn’t dawn on either of us to just hang out as friends only, apparently), but the moment the kiddos were brought up, I bolted.

The final time we dated, in my freshman year of college, he upped the ante a little in an email he sent me.

E, I love you so much. I can’t wait until we graduate college so we can get married, have kids, and start out lives together. [He went on with some other lovey-dovey stuff.] And I would really like it if you would give me a blow job.


Oh my god. I about peed my pants laughing at the absurdity of that request. Just the fact that it was so politely requested by email after talking about our future kids was too much. And then I was like, “Dude, you haven’t even attempted to get to whatever base is before that!” which doubled the absurdity factor.

I promptly emailed him back to inform him that we were broken up again (no, I wasn’t a very mature college freshman). I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have asked for a blow job, he responded back.

A few months later, I started talking to my future husband online, who did not talk about marriage, kids, or fellatio until well into the relationship (and definitely not in that order).

D is for Dating, Lord of the Rings Style

Continuing my theme of “Nerd Life,” I’m going to share a nerdy dating story. Grab the tissues and the vomit pail while you can, because you’re in for one heck of a ride.

I’ve mentioned on this blog before that I met my husband online. I may or may not have mentioned my Lord of the Rings obsession 132 times.

For anyone who isn’t familiar with our Nora Ephron-inspired love story, he was 25 and I was 19 when we met in a politics chatroom on Yahoo, where we shared a mutual love for berating President Bush. (Before you get pissy about that, just know that I’m willing to berate anyone. Even you. <Insert Smeagol’s smoker’s laugh.>)

Here’s the short version, since it’s Saturday, you have other A to Z posts to read, last-minute Easter candy to purchase and perhaps overnight to me, etc.:

Screenshot 2015-04-04 at 2.25.50 AM

And the not-so-short version:

Amazingly, this guy lived in the same town as me, just a few miles away. Not so amazingly, it took forever to get to the love part of the story.

Want to know how I knew he could be The One (That I Date For More Than A Month)? We both loved The Lord of the Rings. I didn’t know anyone else who was that into it and lo and behold, here is someone else who has their own collection of action figures, just like me, and doesn’t seem to be a creep. Score!

When Return of the King came out at the movies, he hinted about us going to see it together.

“So, you said you wanted to see ROTK? I want to see it, too,” he said.

In my typical clueless fashion, I said, “Cool, let me know what you think if you see it before I do.” I liked him, but I was convinced that there was no way he liked me. He later told me that this was one of the many hints he dropped that I didn’t pick up on to see if I was interested in more than just chatting online.

Finally, he asked me out using direct words (Do you want to go out?) and I accepted. We saw The Passion of the Christ. (FYI: that’s not a movie you want to go see on a first date.)

As we started seeing each other more, which I refer to as dating even though it was really non-romantic for a few months, we would often go to different stores to search for new toys for our LOTR collections.

Finally, after a couple of ducked kiss attempts, we did start getting romantic (bow chicka wow wow), and were in love quicker than Gandalf could say “Fly, you fools.” We would refer to each other as my precious and my love. Yes, I understand if you need to take a second to fight back the bile that’s trying to escape.

And then, a few months after we started for-real dating, Sam gave me a 10-inch Gandalf the Grey figure for Christmas. That’s not romantic, you say? Well, he had opened mine, thus ruining the potential for it to have value in 50 years I suppose, and put a diamond promise ring on the staff with a small note that said he wanted us to get married.

Boom, that’s how you officially win a girl’s heart. Mine, anyway.

Admit it, this is you right now:


Feel free to comment with your own dating stories, nerdy or not, romantic or not.

Recalling My First Horrifying, Yet Sweet, Valentine’s Day

Screenshot 2015-02-12 at 6.07.41 PM

It was close to a year from the time that S. and I started dating before Valentine’s Day happened. I wasn’t really sure what to expect from him, since had both talked about our dislike for the holidays being so commercialized and for the suggestion that love is tied to money.

On Valentine’s Day, I came home from school (I was a junior in college at the time) and went to my room after chatting briefly with my grandmother (who I lived with). I stood over my computer desk to reach down and turn the tower on, and when I stood up, I noticed someone coming out of my closet out the corner of my eye.

Before I could register who it was, I let out a blood-curdling scream. Then I saw who it was–S. was standing there with flowers. He looked horrified.

“That wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for he said,” handing me the flowers. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Ah, thanks,” I said, rather embarrassed. But then again, what young woman wouldn’t be freaked out when she notices a man coming out of her closet?

My grandmother popped in about that time, laughing. “I knew that’s what was going when you said you wanted to hide in her closet and surprise her, S!” she said.

“Well, why didn’t you say that?” S asked.

“Because I thought it would be funny,” my grandmother replied, causing us to laugh as well. She left the room after that to let us be alone.

“Here,” S said to me, thrusting a gift bag in my hand. I opened the bag and found some chocolate, a Lord of the Rings figure, and a card that S had made for me. That might sound corny, but it was really sweet and basically said that he couldn’t wait to see me in my wedding dress (even though he hadn’t yet proposed–that wouldn’t come for a few more months).

So, that was my first time really celebrating Valentine’s Day. We don’t usually do anything now, outside of buying some chocolate on sale the day after, plus going out to eat by ourselves sometime during the month of February.

When I was picking up some stuff for Little Man to take to school for their Valentine’s Day party tomorrow, I did find a pretty cool card. So I bought it for myself.