Another week, another BlogBattle.

This week, I went for something a bit different than what I usually do.  It’s a bit out there.  I hope that you enjoy it.


The Meet-Ugly

“What’s up, Honey?”

“Why do you want to know how I met your father?”

“No, no, no—it isn’t that.  I didn’t expect that question from you is all.  Lord knows, I never asked my parents.  Never expected you to be any different.”

“No, it’s not some sort of secret. . . .  Actually, it is.”

“Yes, really.”

“Well if you want to pipe down, perhaps I’ll tell you.  And if you promise to keep our secret.  If you don’t, bad things could happen.  Best if you don’t risk that.”

“Does it matter what things?  Bad things.”

“Bad things.”

“No, I will not describe them.  Use your imagination.  You’re sixteen; you can figure it out on your own.”

“Thank you.  Do you still want to know?”

“Ok.  Do you promise to keep the secret?”

“Good.  Now, in all of your English classes, have they every discussed something called a meet-cute?”

“No?  Well, that ruins my plan.”

“It’s ok.  It’s not your fault.”

“What’s a meet-cute?  Um. . . . I’m not sure that I can explain it right.  Let me look it up.  Meet-Cute:  Usually used in film or television—basically the visual arts, Honey—when a future romantic couple meet in a way that is considered cute, adorable, or funny.

“Does that make sense?”

“Good.”

“It doesn’t really relate.  At least, not directly.  I was going to say that your father and I met through a meet-ugly.  It was a bad joke.”

“A meet-ugly?  Think about it. . . .  The opposite of a meet-cute.  Our first meeting wasn’t what I’d call cute.”

“Well, it went like this:

“We were in Chicago.  Actually, I was in Chicago.  Your father was as well, I just didn’t know it at the time.  I’d stopped for a light while I was traveling to a concert.  Imagine it.  The small town girl in the middle downtown Chicago.  Buildings higher than I’d ever seen to either side of me and that wide blue expanse of Lake Michigan right in front of me.  It was marvelous.  I couldn’t stop staring—at the people, at the buildings, at the décor.  Everything about me was new and exotic.  You’ve been to your grandparent’s farm.  There isn’t more than fifty people within ten miles.  Chicago was a culture shock.

“Regardless, there I was, sitting a light—this was back before automatic locks, mind.  I was sitting at this light watching the cars go by.  The light turned green, but before I could put my foot on the gas, my passenger door whips open and this man climbs in.  He’s well dressed in a suit and a tie and carrying a stack of papers in his left arm.  Unfortunately, in his right he clutched a pistol pointed right at me.

“You know that I’m no stranger around guns, but having one pointed at your middle changes the whole game plan.  I froze in fear.  My mouth went dry and my eyes were glued on that pistol.  All I could think was ‘Please, please, don’t let him shoot.’  It felt like hours passed to me, but probably not even two seconds went by in reality.  A car honking behind me caused me to look up at my intruder’s face.

“I’ll never forget that face.  Chiseled chin, strong eyes, and dark hair that I just wanted to run my hands through.”

“What?  Was that inappropriate?”

“Do you think I was unaware of the gun?  It was a primal emotion, thank you very much.  Anyway, the car behind me honked and I looked up at him.  And your father’s first words to me were ‘Drive fast.’  I’ll never forget them.”

“Yes, that was your father.”

“Are you going to let me tell you the story?”

“Good.  So he told me to drive.  I drove.  He told me to drive faster.  I drove faster.  Police started chasing us.  There were car crashes and even a few helicopters.  When we’d left the police behind, I wanted to slow down, but your father urged me to go faster.  Despite the gun, I started to argue.  This wasn’t some fancy car I was driving.  It was your grandmother’s beat-up Cadillac and not made for high speed.

“But when I put my foot on the brake two things happened.  First, you father yelled at me for the first time.  I yelled back and we had our first argument.  That was when a bullet tore through the back window and embedded itself into the dash.  Apparently what I didn’t know was that I’d stopped outside of the Russian Embassy—“

“Yes, I said Russian.  Anyway, some Russian agents were after your father because he’d stolen some sort of document that discussed their plans for world domination or something.  I never found out.  I tried reading them later, but your father distracted me with a kiss.  And oh, what a kiss that—“

“Yes?”

“Am I joking?  Why would I joke about something like that?”

“Of course, I’m joking.  Are you serious?  Your father a secret agent?  Ha!  You know he’s afraid of spiders.  Can you imagine him dealing with police and spies.  No, that’s not your father.

“So how’d I meet him?  He and some of his college buddies visited the restaurant where I worked.  My first sight of your father was him inhaling spaghetti through his nose for some party trick.  His friends thought it was hilarious.  I found it disgusting.”

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14 thoughts on “BlogBattle: Spaghetti or The Meet-Ugly

  1. Tomorrow is my BlogBattle reading day, but for tonight I’m passing on the info that you are NOMINATED for the Liebster Award, my friend. It says you can forego, but I am telling you, sir, you must accept this award and answer my questions. It’s on a need to know basis, and I need to know. 🙂

    Like

  2. I loved the slight confusion I felt at the beginning melting into a phone conversation with someone else we couldn’t see. I imagined mom standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes, holding the phone between shoulder and ear while she explained how they met. I’d love it if my parents did stuff like that. I could hear a daughter on the other end going, “Really, Mom? No way. Dad would never do that. What?” haha I agree with E. about kinda wishing the first story was real and part of me has this idea that it really was, but mom decided to make a more believable story because it was obvious her daughter wasn’t ready for the truth. haha 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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