(man-nipples and sushi should never be in the same photo)
As this is the last installment of how we met and ends with our getting married.... aaaaaaand as I'm playing around with getting linkydinks up on the side bar, please note the site I'm trying to promote down at the bottom. Click and spread the word.
We continue with the story of how I met the famous sushi god (see above).
Let's clarify some things.
No, I did not pee in the bag. I made it to the first exit Stateside. I did the deflated pee. Do men do this? You have to pee so badly that when you do, you just deflate and collapse upon yourself and swear this is better than nookie in a chocolate fountain. I must say I've taken to timing my roadtrip pees. I get all excited going back to the car and announcing, "That was a 17 second pee!"
Yes, we did bribe a policeman. He took my US$, Mark's AU$, and even the few Pesos we had. We flashed our wallets open so he could see we were bone dry.
Yes, Mark did smack and crack my face, and that, my liege, is where we left off.
We got some ice and applied it to my semi plum face. My oral surgery didn't seem to go backwards and hey, I wasn't in any pain, really. Time to go and get our money and put Mark's name on the rental agreement.
We head to a mall and get money.
We head to the airport to get the rental car straightened out. I left Mark to sign stuff and went to the restroom. I did my bidniss and then after washing my hands, I blew my nose. Inside my head was the highest pitched rrreeeeeeeech and my cheek puffed out more. So much that the lower eyelid was pulling away from the eye. Hm.
"Mark, we need to go to the hospital."
"Because I think my skull has a leak," I said and then explained the inner rrreeeeeeeech.
Now, imagine going to a hospital with a banged up face with a guy who is wearing a basketball shirt that is quite old. Yeah, WIFE BEATER!
"Can you explain what happened?"
"I hit her."
"I goosed him."
Nurse Skepticia didn't look convinced, so I tried my skills at logic and formal reasoning. "Look, if he had hit me in anger, I'd have told you I fell down the stairs or some other story. As it is, I leaned over, goosed him, learned he was very ticklish and here we are. He did it. I'm not going to lie to you. He'll tell you he did it. We are not fitting the profile."
I think what convinced her was that we were giggling about this. I mean, compared to a Mexican jail cell, this is nothing!
Then the phone rings.
Mark takes the phone out of the hospital, because $3,084,257,093,487 in fees can't find us equipment not foiled by text messages from horny teens.
"Uh... Hi.... Is this Mark?"
"Can I speak to Katy?"
"No. She's in the hospital."
"I broke her face, but it's okay, she'll call you later."
Meanwhile I'm getting a CAT scan or something that xrays you in slivers. There is it, clear as can be, what is scientifically and medically known as the apple of my cheek is broken. It looks like two parentheses that overlap, instead of meeting in one continuous curve. Nothing we can do about it. It'll heal itself.
Bonus! Let me go then.
Mark tells me of the phone call and I hurry to call her back before the Fibbies come to rescue me. She took some convincing. She even had to work on asking me questions that wouldn't give it away that I was saying that the boy was abusing me. Anyway, it didn't matter. By the time she got a fed to listen to her, we'd be long gone. The AZ state fair was on, and there were funnel cakes to inject directly into my butt.
So off we went to the fair. Mark in a white basketball jersey, loooooong saggy arm holes (always a hot look, really) and me with my puffed out purple face. There was a guy trying to get our attention to buy his snake oil or sweepa or something. When I turned to face him, he blanched. YEAH BUDDY! Sell to this mug!
We left Phoenix and headed to Vegas. On the way there was this sound. A sort of pffffffffff. We looked at each other and did the "not me" (which, by the way, in married life has become... THAT'S MINE!). Seems the Odwalla drink I got and half finished became one nasty brew and blew the bottle to bits. This required immediate stopping to clean. That was a stink!
We made it to Vegas (remember, October after 9/11) with no other stink ups. We found a place off the strip and then cruised the strip for deals for the next day. The place was empty...relatively empty. For $100 we found an enormous room at Treasure Island. Two king-sized beds, two full baths (one a tub, one a shower) and all sorts of poncy furniture as if we'd be entertaining kings at the foot of the two beds. I think there was room service, I know there was jumping.
It was from these rooms that I decided to call my mom and fess up.
"Hi mom! I'm in Vegas with a guy from Australia I met on the internet. I think I'm going to go over there for a few months to see if he's worth my dowry." (something like that)
"Oh thank God!"
"I thought you went to Tijuana for sex." (This is an actual quote and has become a favorite amongst my friends)
"Well, you called me from your cell after going to San Diego. What you described sounded like a UTI (wee wee boo boo) and you usually get that from sex." (This was very close to what she said. The woman was too relieved I didn't go to Tijuana for sex to care that I had what miiiiiiiiiight be considered kindaearly nookie with some freak from the internet. Go mom!)
".... well.... yeah... but couldn't you think that I got it in California? I don't need to go to Tijuana for sex!"
"Why else would you go?"
My mom. I love her to bits, but sometimes little Miss Lawrence Central (Indianapolis) Homecoming Queen 1961 comes out. Both clued in and clueless all rolled into one short woman.
And you know what? She was thrilled. All excited about this. Will talk later. Love you, good-bye.
I really have so little to rebel against.
That night we decided to take advantage of the tub and get bubble bath. But first, there'll be some drinking. I don't drink often. Probably 10x a year is a heavy year, so when I do... I'm GONE! ! After some apple martinis (sorry, but I can only do sour stuff) we were off to find bubble bath. And being that my judgement was off a bit, I poured the entire contents in. I also learned that being drunk in deep hot water with too much soap is not good for a long life. I don't understand what happens, but it was like our butts became balloons and we were totally unable to sit without going butt up like a messed up Weebil. I was probably out back picking my nose when they handed out the romance gene. Perhaps I met Mark there and we were destined to meet again.
You know what is great about Vegas? You can walk around with a puffed out purple face and a Krispy Kreme doughnut hat on your head and no one looks twice.
Where to next?
Mark wants to go to the Grand Canyon. His idea, and I swear this is not an exaggeration, was to go to the GC, hike down, spend a night, hike up and go back to LA. Two days! Yeah well, this is the GRAND canyon. Not the not bad canyon, not the good for a first attempt canyon. Every Guide we met on the way as we got maps looked at him funny. I think he got away with it because he's an Aussie. He had to be joking. Oh those nutty Aussies. Where was I? Why wasn't I involved in this planning? I was too busy squeezing my head so it wouldn't explode and keeping my head down against my knees to keep my eyeballs in. Hiking was not on my agenda, but unfortunately neither were reason, logic or audible speech.
We got to where we could camp up above (he realized no one was going to let him try to get down) and set up camp. We decided to go find this here Grand Canyon. When we got to the fence Mark said, "That's a big hole." And then he looked down and saw how deep this big hole was. Then we lost it. I was in great pain, but the giggles just hit and I couldn't save myself. Oh sure... HIKE DOWN! in a day... but hey, you trip and fall, you might get there, but hiking up in a day? Tee and a hee! We got distracted from our giggles by a squirrel who was on the edge and just running amok. Probably not amok and totally with a plan, but it looked amok to us. We both got very serious. Doesn't he realize this is a big hole!??!?
We passed the night on the part of the world where the ground is the hardest! Always good for a night after the hangover. The next morning we left. Now remember, we had and at this time have no plans. We're just driving. Sure, it'd be nice to stay longer, but we were just, you know, in the Grand Canyon hood (compared to Australia) and why not just stop for a look-see? And it was his birthday and he wanted to see it. I never refuse a man who breaks my face.
Now we have an agenda. Get back the day before Mark leaves. Hop on the internet somewhere, make a reservation at yet another tourist place that has no one there, do Disneyland or some other version of institutionalized fun and get him out. I don't let people miss planes.
Anaheim. The Heim of Ana. Void in anything interesting, but a plethora of nice hotels with really cheap rates.
I had to show him the Outback Steakhouse and he had a lot of fun letting the waiter do some crappy Aussie accent and then ordering in his own gen-u-ine accent. It's not a good restaurant, but hey... we went to steal the menu (and did). The Wallabydarns were okay, too.
Off to Disneyland. Why? Because ... because we were too tired to drive anywhere else (I have read Fast Food Nation and am not keen on giving $$ to Walt's company, but I was too tired to protest. I was going for easy fun). $7 for parking (not a good sign...freaky anti-semetic mouse!) and then two weather beaten men approached us and asked if we paid already. Of course we hadn't, we don't have that shellshocked look on us. One said to come with them, and naturally, being suckers for more punishment, we did. We got to the gate and the woman took the first guy's ticket and said, "This is for you and 3 guests? Are these your guests?" He said, "Yes ma'am." We all got in and he gave us the tickets and said it was good for both parks, and have fun! He said everyone else was just too freaked or said they had tickets. Well, let's hear it for being trusting and it paying off! That's about $120 that Walt didn't get. Okay, we were stuck when it came to food, but hey.... $7 to get here? Worked for us. It was about time we had luck on our side.
We had all of our stuff in the car and left to go to the airport. When you go to Australia, you leave LAX between 10:30 and 11:50 pm, depending on where you're going (BNE SYD ...). We had the time to amuse ourselves at a park and then fly out. As the USA was still in the midst of the fear sphere, we had to get there 4 hours early. And we'd have done that on time had we not had a flat in who knows where. It was dark. That was all I knew. The service people weren't going to come, you got that idea, so Mark just fixed the flat and I held my flashlight (thank goodness we had camping plans) to wave the cars exiting the freeway away from the squishy Aussie. The flat was on the driver's side. Oh lady luck you hate us so.
Okay, back on the road but we're too late to do the rental car first, so I drop him off first, say good-bye and see you in December and get to the rental agency. I called my friend in LA and she was going to meet me at one of the many groovy diners. I turned off the phone and cabbed it.
While I was telling her the story, Mark was hanging out outside of the airport with 2908374509837 other people. Seems there was an anthrax scare right as I was digging into some nice homemade cobbler.
And really that was it.
I went downunder the following December for a few months. Nothing exciting there. We were living as we would were I to come down. All went well and here I am. Sure, I had to come back. You have to do all sorts of stuff to immigrate to the only country that is meaner to immigrants than the US, but that's not blogworthy. Basically I had to apply for the visa on US soil and get married on Aussie soil. That was horrible for having any kind of wedding. We wanted to have a wedding in the US as I knew more people or to elope. Neither were options as I had to know ahead of time who was marrying us. Because of DIMIA (Dept of Immigration, Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs... and don't get me started about tossing the indigenous in at the end of a group that starts off with immigrants. Totally offensive, in my opinion, but no one ever asks) and its rules, I was not fussed or excited about the wedding. But that was okay. I was never a white wedding woman to start with. I didn't want it to be the best day of my life. Leaves the next days as wanting. I know Mark agrees. Being married to a guy I am smitten kitten over is great. Pomp and circumstance is not (for me).
We got hitched on (US) Thanksgiving Day and only celebrate that day. Not the date. I can't tell you the date we said "I do", but I can tell you it was Thanksgiving 2002. I mean really.... Why celebrate the date? If you got married on a Saturday, why not celebrate that first Saturday in March or whatever?
Now I gotta run. Literally. I have a 3 hour run and this blog has left me concentrating too hard and the breakfast blast just isn't happening.
(Columbus Marathon 2005. Was born in Columbus. Had moved to an apartment we ran past when I was packing up to move to Oz.)
From now on, there'll be more athletic stuff and dreams. But not the one I just had last night where I picked up Mark's kids for a visitation and discovered we were all wearing pleather pants and plimsoles à la 80s.