A JEW AND A METHODIST WALK INTO A BAR

I have a husband. And I have had him for going on 46 years. (A bit longer in the biblical sense… but who’s counting?)

It was a ‘meet cute’ in the 70’s when disco was the thing and Division Street was where one went to get things movin’. Divison Street… the street of loooooovve.

The place: The BBC, above a restaurant called Hotspurs and across from PS Chicago. The soundtrack: Donna Summer. The dance: “the Hustle”. Me: decked out in my black jumpsuit with the silver-wraparound-lame belt – not looking where I was going.

Following that momentous encounter (where we legitimately did the ‘bump’), we made our way to the dance floor. And that’s when I carefully scanned the fella before me. With his Nik Nik shirt casually tucked into his faded bell bottoms, he hunkily swiveled his hips while managing the white man’s overbite. Impressive, no?

I mean, how could I say anything but YES to THAT! And I did just THAT on February 14^th, 1978, seated at booth two in The Pump Room. The “I do” would be invoked six months later when I forgot my vows and cried while blubbering, I love you.

Now I was cheerfully stuck with him. He was delightfully stuck with me. We were enthusiastically stuck with each other. We were cheerfully, delightfully, enthusiastically and blissfully hitched.

A literal collision of bodies ignited in what became love and marriage.

We are not exactly “Green Acres”, but he was brought up ‘farm living’ and I was ‘city life’. Blending our differing upbringing… geographically and religiously (me: Jewish – he: Methodist)… just adds some spice to the mix. Although often perceived as red flags for relationship success, we view them as stimulating embellishments.

He will dance with me in the kitchen. AND leave cabinet doors and drawers open just for me to close. Isn’t that thoughtful?

He tells the same joke over and over and over again. We (and likely many of you) have heard it umpteen times and even witnessed people falling for it the second time around.

He has cultivated a number of options in setting up the joke and been known to make it specific to the occasion or profession of the “audience”. If you are lucky you might even get the embellished version. But the ending is always the same…

… Mark Jones laughing more than anybody.

And if laughter is the point, well, his own laughter in particular, I suggest you request some Silly Sally Jokes. Those will really get him going.

My husband is a real charmer. He has the most charming way of pronouncing a number of words. Words like: mushroon (mushroom), color (collar) and a darling utterance of second daughter’s name… Kelly (Calli).

Let’s talk groceries. This man knows how to shop for  groceries! Give him a list or mention a few items and he will return with five bags from three different stores several hours later. It is a thing of beauty. A regular tours de force.

And he won’t let me forget it.

My conversations with girlfriends? He wants to hear every single detail (don’t worry I don’t spill secrets) and is quite deflated if I hadn’t mentioned how absolutely wonderful he is within those convos. And I quote, “did you tell them how wonderful I am?”

These days, my husband appears to be a most welcoming observer of anything and everything within the Western genre… low-budget, spaghetti, old timey, new timey – he ain’t picky. And I know for a fact that he’s seen many of them over and over again… cause I annoyingly point that out to him all the time. C’mon dude, you know what’s gonna happen when Matt Dillon pays Miss Kitty a visit! You can read all about that -> here.

He loves his daughters and is adoringly protective… as in slow to warm up to boyfriends. Not because he doesn’t think they can take care of themselves – they are strong, amazing women – he is simply their dad. And he might have a different idea of what their future should look like but rallies around their decisions with support and unsolicited wise advice. He listens. Mostly. 

When they were little he made ‘father’s famous flying flapjacks’ every Sunday and cupcakes for their school bake sales. Not a single complaint when apprised of bake sale at 8pm the night before. Unlike my reaction.

I share my life with a salt of the earth, trust with my life, kind, strong, solid, smart, warm-hearted hottie. He writes me cards with sweet sentiments and has this adorable habit of repurposing used greeting cards, or ones meant for other occasions, by crossing out invalid inscriptions and then “re-gifting”.

In spite of the scribbled hieroglyphics, it’s the loving sentiment that counts.

Ergo, if you can read the lettering above, will you please send me a transcript?

Here he is and he is all mine. ❤

Just to be clear, he is WONDERFUL. Without question.

See I said it.

ps. If you call our landline phone (yes we still have one) you might hear “CVS pharmacy” upon pick up. That’s Mark Jones.