Love Crazy

Many of you know when I was but 8 years old, huzbin plucked me from my family and married me.  It was a most unusual wedding, taking place in a tiny North Carolina hamlet with the service performed by an ancient toothless oddball who also tried to sell us some property as he was performing the wedding ceremony.  Nothing but the best for the huzbin and me.   We had a chance to return to the scene of the crime this past summer.  We were on our way to our yearly vacation spot and happened to see signs to the same wedding hamlet.  "Could this possibly be the same place???"  We really needed to see if that place had existed because I have questioned the authenticity of this marriage since day one.  Of course, it's two kids too late now.  Not that it matters these days...  Anyway, we got off the main highway and followed the signs to said hamlet.  We drove and drove and drove and drove.  With each passing mile, I could see the huzbin beginning to fume, as he has no patience.  He was more interested in the vacation laying before him than the past he couldn't find.  One final curse word and we turned around.  "We'll just have to believe it's there."  Kinda like Camelot.  Now you see it, now you don't.  Thankfully, the marriage is not like that.  I remember when we moved into our first apartment.  I was soooo full of joy.  Being married and having an apartment was so exciting.  I was excited over being such an adult.  We lived in student married housing, so everyone in the entire complex was just like us - young, married students.  Those years were some really fun times.  Fun people, fun experiences, fun parties, and we made lots of good friends.  Then we grew up a little (well, he did) and we bought our first house.  There were fun people, fun experiences, fun parties and we made lots of good friends.  After a few years in our first house, we bought another house.  This was a fixer upper and I hated it, but the huzbin insisted it would be a wise move as it was a real dump in a great neighborhood.  Friends, do not EVER EVER EVER fall for that line.  We had to make it livable and that meant construction, construction workers, mess, tools, machines, mess, noise, endless intrusions, mess, dust, mess, it was awful in the worst way.  We added a second story, pushed out the front of the house 13 feet, and refinished the basement and turned the back porch into a sunroom.  It was wintertime and we had no heat, save for a small wood stove.  The rain poured and caused a roof to fall in, damaging everything in the living room.  The workers failed to read the architects plans clearly and ended up screwing up the second floor.  I began yelling at the builder almost every day - to the point he told the huzbin he didn't want to come back.  And to think it only took 9 months.  9 miserable months.  It was one of the lowest points of my life and I will never do it again.  And after all the construction was over, I sat back and said, "I hate this house and I'm looking for a new one."  And so we moved.  That was 36 years ago.  I cannot believe we've been in this house that long, but I love my house.  It's just perfect for us.  Oh, it has it's flaws and bumps and such, but they can be fixed.  And the best part is everyone we know loves our house and they always want to return.  I would like to think it's because they can feel love here.  That's important to me.  I always want my house to be full of love and happiness.  And a few other things, too.  Maybe it really is a sort of Camelot after all.