This April will mark thirty (30) years since J and I met. Officially we met on April 4th, but this year I’d like to start celebrating right now.
Thirty years of very authentic, un-rehearsed Gracie Allen-like moments that have turned into a wealth of hilarious memories, and thus bestowing me with oodles of potential stand-up material that I use regularly on Twitter.
Like the time we went to purchase our first color TV, and J was blathering on, telling the man in the store that she liked the look of the sleek, seamless black box on the top shelf of the display case. ”That’s a microwave, ma’am.”, said the exasperated salesman, while possibly rolling his eyes a bit. (My memory is a bit hazy on this detail, but eye rolling would have been the most appropriate inappropriate reaction.)
Like the time we were sitting with my parents and listening to my father tell one of his World War II stories. My father was recounting how he and his outfit had taken control of a small, Nazi-occupied German hamlet. Headquarters for this occupation were set up in a castle at the top of a hill. My dad and his buddies burst through the front door of this castle with their rifles in position and ready to discharge their bullets as they scattered around looking for any signs of life. “You had to be prepared in case the enemy still had control of the castle. It was kill or be killed.” J, wide-eyed with wonderment, said “Dad, did you see any nice antiques in the castle?” Even my mother, whose dementia always left us wondering whether or not she was in a lucid state of mind, practically convulsed with laughter.
Then there was the time we saw Diddy (wearing a red baseball hat) standing on a quiet street corner here in the West Village flanked by two towering, chiseled bodyguards. I walked in his direction, J following me, silently wondering what the hell I was doing. We chatted about why he was in the ‘hood, his clothing collection and, of course, Mitzi. Introductions and handshakes were exchanged. After we said goodbye and began our walk home J said, “He’s so nice. What’s his name?” I said, “Diddy.” J: ”Who’s Diddy? I thought the guy was the head of The Guardian Angels.”
Oh, I could go on and on, but…let’s get to the bling.
By now you must know J loves her baubles, and if ever there’s an occasion that’s bauble-worthy, it’s this one.
Surely a gift is in order after 3 decades, right? ’3′ being the operative number. A little something for each decade.
You know what’s coming, right?
Here’s the box.
A three carrot ring!!! Get it?
Now I must get cracking on the matching earrings!
Note: Neither of us would trade the life we’ve built for all the bling in the world. And that is no April Foolin’.
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