Green Beans, or How I Met and Fell in Love with My Sweetie

This post is for a contest sponsored by Her Hawtness. And it's about green beans. Not really green beans, but, I guess if you have to talk in code, green beans is actually better than schwalla wax. So, if you're looking for not-so-much information about consenting adult green beans, go visit The Bee, he's still 100% Rated G.

My Sweetie and I have been together for just-over eight years. I love him to death. And so, appropriately enough, this post is about green beans with My Sweetie. First-ever green beans with my Sweetie (the whole true story my mother was smart enough not to ask, Thank God she doesn't read this.)

It begins with my losing my job. A decent job, but a job filled with nasty women. I miss the money, and I miss the creativity, but miss the people I spent 99.9% of my job time with? Nope.

Anyway, I managed to get a piddling job at the cigarette shop down the street from me. I also managed to snag me a hubby, but this isn't about snagging him, it's about how I got that itch scratched. And scratched. And scratched.

So, I'm working at the Nails in Yer Coffin Boutique, and met this guy. Not actually MET this guy, I mean, I didn't know his name for months. The flirting was fun, but I was seeing someone else. Over the course of the next several months, I still hadn't caught his name, and well, at some point in June, I actually tried to set him up to meet my sister (remember, I was seeing someone else.)

He declined all efforts to meet my sister. He spazzed a little when I asked him out (and he turned me down in the middle of the spaz.) The manager of the Boutique would make gagging gestures behind his back whenever he'd be in at the same time I was there. And I knew his name by now.

I got a different, better job (the flypaper for freaks job.) So, I wasn't going to be seeing him anymore. (Remember, this is a job thing.)

I started the New and Improved Job, and quit the peddling death in packs of 20 job. I still managed to run into him now-and-again, simply by driving by the Boutique on the way to my mother's.

It ends up being Wednesday, November 1, 2000. Big deal, you say, but what you don't know is that he's spent the summer telling people about "the Smoke Shop Girl" and I've spent the summer talking about him (the other guy didn't last past July 4.) You also don't know that I asked him, on one occasion when he created his own parking spot, "Hey, I hope you don't fuck like you park." (He walked into the door. Literally.)

So, on Wednesday, November 1, 2000, I stop in the Boutique and he's there (of course he's there, didn't I just say I'd stop there if I saw his vehicle?) He mentions that I didn't bring the Boy (now known as the Toad) to his house for Trick-or-Treat. I tell him that I have no idea where he lives, even though he keeps telling me "it's the little white house, literally, steps from your house" but he fails to mention that it's the little white house that sits behind the big green house. I tell him so, and he tells me again that I was rude to not stop in.

Since I had a sitter set up for that night anyway, I head down the street, walking, to his house. I paced in the alley next to his little white house for about 20 minutes. If he'd looked out his window, he'd have seen a crazy woman, pacing, talking to herself.

I screw up (HAH!) the courage to knock on his door. He answers the door looking like he's in a cartoon, and Tweety has just whacked him on the head with a cast iron frying pan. He lets me in.

Now, I need to tell you that I am a wanton, loose woman. I'm not looking for marriage, and while my mother and grandmother will tell you that I'm giving the milk away for free, I'm heading into my mid-thirties with the washer spin cycle as my best friend. Yeah, that works.

We had discovered, while I was still working at the Boutique that we actually knew some of the same people from his home town. We sit and talk. Like dorks, we actually look through his yearbook, and he keeps having to go to the bathroom (how romantic is that? I make him nervous.)

Finally, somewhere about, oh, I don't know, quarter past just about forever, he kissed me.

Horndog sex starved thing that I am, there's no way this guy is getting away with that.

Partially dressed, smashed in between the overstuffed cushions on his couch, we had green beans. And what green beans it was.

I would have showed up at his house, every 24 hours, just for those green beans. I didn't need more. (Okay, maybe a glass of water now and then, but really, what would that be?) I got home that night (again, how romantic is it that he walked me home?) around 4 am. I had to call off work the next day, because, duh, I hadn't gotten any sleep and there was no way I was going to be flypaper for freaks that day after that.

I have to say that the green beans then was good. Very very good. Plain, straight forward, even your mom has had this kind of green beans. Since then, however, green beans with this man progessed to furniture moving. And now, we're creeping up on furniture destroying. It's a momentum I've never experienced previously.

Honestly, tidal waves of green beans. The kind you clean up with a mop and bucket (you know, now that I mention it, he sings that the morning after sometimes.)

Now, just to ruin a great dirty green bean post, I'll also tell you that I really liked him then, and I still really like him now. And man-o-man, am I glad I didn't fix him up with my sister.