We met on a Sunday evening in late November. I had spent all day thumbing through Fathers and Sons and I took a break at the Beans & Brews in downtown Salt Lake City. He was there with his roommate, and all of us were bored. I believe our first conversation involved a discussion of our common frustration with our living arrangements — specifically residing in Utah — and a promise from the dear fellow that if I were to go out with him, he'd guarantee a short-term commitment due to his addiction to Lucky Strikes, 2-packs-a-day. I agreed to the proposal, as I was still quite young, and off we went to his place to make out and watch bad stoner movies. Four weeks later, I took a pregnancy test that revealed the bluest blue line in the history of HPTs, and two weeks after that we were married at a small chapel in the presence of friends, family, and a Justice of the Peace.
Ten years from that day, my wonderful partner whisked me away to a hotel in Reston, VA with dinner reservations ("reservations" as in we-waited-at-the-crowded-bar-for-a-table) to McKormick and Schmick's Seafood Restaurant where we dined on succulent surf and turf as we got properly snockered on Châteauneuf du Pape. We plan to celebrate this milestone further with a trip to Ireland in the late spring. We're a long way from the Meth Lab Capital of America where we had our first apartment, and I've truly enjoyed
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