It was Easter season 2002. I had a good circle of friends, a good church, I was back in school and doing well, I had goals, I laughed deeply and really, really meant it for the first time in several years. I had good friends, and needed no dude to fill any of my places.

So CLEARLY, I met a boy. THE boy. I met this boy at church (a change from my priors), he had a good job (a change from my priors), cool parents (a change from my priors), shared my friends (a change from my priors). We’d been in the same circle of 10 or so friends at church for a while, and I’d called him one night for some random nothingness and ended up still on the phone several hours later. For two people who only sort of knew each other, we totally steamed up the phone lines with the double entendres in the midst of the church and politics and college and swapping stories talk.

I saw him at a St. Paddy’s gathering (at NOT Mrs. Tater’s) a couple days after this phone call. The day was full of close touches and that first date sort of breath holding, stomach fluttering, damp parts kind of rapport. This was perfection.

I fessed up to a couple of the girls what was going on, I was flat out commanded to NOT fuck this up with him. That he was SO MUCH BETTER than anyone else I’d ever dated, etc etc.

It was 3-4 weeks of late night phone calls, emails etc. All was well. I was SO happy.

And I prayed, oh how I prayed that God would show me the way, that s/he would help me make good decisions and be with us.

There was this thorn.

NOT Mrs. Tater.

Bitca. (Name that reference.)

She seemed to think she and the Repellican had something something special. She’d asked if I was okay with them going to lunch. I was like, uh, sure. Because I knew he was mine, so whatever. Just keep your hands off, bitca. I wasn’t worried. And why would I be? When I talked to him about it, like the oh, so mature person I was, he told me she had gotten the wrong idea and wouldn’t leave him alone. He was mature about it, and I let it go.

It all blew up the night before Easter. She saw us kissing. She was pissed. I thought she needed to get over it.

Then he dumped me the next day. After Easter Sunday service.

The fuck? (verb, not noun)

My friends were shocked. I was shocked. And man was I bloody pissed that this carrot of a perfect relationship had been put in front of me and made me jump for it, never quite reaching it.


Now this is a story of getting played. Later that summer, after many hard feelings had moved past, NOT Mrs. Tater and I sat down with a box o’ wine and one of her friends and we literally. picked. apart. every. day. of. that. month.

We fanatically went over the details and it boiled down to starting St. Paddy’s weekend he started seeing her and talking to me at the same time. He would take her to a movie, take her home, call me and talk dirty for several hours. Or he would see me, I’d go home, he’d call her.

Dating two women from the SAME social circle at the same time? Seriously?

And that whole line of compost about getting the wrong idea and not being left alone had been fed to NOT Mrs. Tater as well.

He dumped me, and went straight to her apartment. He pushed the sex issue, and when she made it abundantly clear that they. were. not. having. sex. He let it go.

And never called her again.

At this point we decided the best course of action was for her to call him from MY phone. If he had any sense of self preservation, the idea of her and I up in the middle of the night, clearly drunk, and with him enough on our minds for us to call him – this should have shriveled his brass balls to the size of raisins in fear.

The next day at church, he seemed nervous. And we giggled.


This is also a story of “living well is the best revenge”.

I was so hurt over this, that I swore off men and vowed to have only cats and “rabbits” (you know what I mean) from then on.

It was only this kind of hurt that made me innocently email Scout after a conversation with a friend. I never expected a response from him, much less anything else.

Like, say, getting married four years later.

The end of this tale is that NOT Mrs. Tater met Mr. Tater at our wedding.

and they will exchange wedding rings and become Mr. and Mrs. Tater come next Spring.

Repellican? Moved to the coast and fell off the face of the Earth, never to be heard of again. Never piss off a couple of redheads by choice.

(and the story closes to the strains of The Dixie Chicks’ “Goodbye Earl”)