OhMissesGowda

I was married once. She was a blonde ex-teenage model. I was a dot.com dude about to lay-off 100 people. It was literally love at first site. A couple of smitten dates into the whole scene we realized that as a pre-teen I had shopped at her step-dad’s record store in Providence, RI and most likely bought a Def Leppard t-shirt from a pint-sized pre-runway version of her behind the counter.
6 weeks after we met I wondered out loud if she would marry me. She wondered out loud what the hell had taken me so long to ask.

We moved into my apartment on the beach one frigid storm-smacked night that winter. Got married a year later.

This was the last song we and the remants of our drunken entourage danced to just before they kicked us out of the ballroom overlooking the Charles River, but a bit after someone had chucked a bottle of champagne and a plate of lobster ravioli into the baby grand while the jazz trio ripped through the last of their all Monk set prior to folks starting spinning their own music (Warning, Will Robinson - flash movie, opens in new window):

Hear the Last Song I Heard Before Waking Up Married

6 weeks later the World Trade Center got flattened into a burial mound.

A year later we were divorced.

My question to my wonderful friends and family who were so encouraging at the time, yet revealed that the night before my honeymoon their was a secret meeting of the inner circle to determine the spread and over/under on just how long I would stay un-single (with the real money on whether we would make it through the plane ride to Puerto Rico without bludgeoning each other with a sack of those tiny airplane liquor bottles):

Next time a guy starts off his life of bliss drunk breakdancing to a banana rapping about a sandwich…could we perhaps save the brother a few grand in heartache and paperwork by IMMEDIATELY BITCH SMACKING HIM OUT OF HIS SMIRK AND BACK INTO HIS SENSES?!

Thanks in advance.