Our Story #2: March in a Small Town

{part 2 of a 7-part series of stories about my journey of love, with Al by my side.}

I encourage you to read-up on the previous stories in the series and check out the "Me, Him and Our Story" link above for background on our journey together.

Like a lot of military couples, we spent a large portion of our getting-to-know-each-other phase using webcam and phones. Granted, our friendship background helped, but that doesn't make up for the many, MANY, many miles between Minnesota and Texas.

About a month after our anti-V-day in Texas, he was able to get a pass home for a long weekend. I picked him up at the airport in mid-March and we decided to spend the weekend out at the farm. Keep in mind, I had met his family previously, but both times were fairly brief. This would be the first time I'd spend a significant period with them.

Let me start off by saying that my $150 boots did not mix well with a hog farm.

What do I know? I'm a city girl.

I didn't spend a lot of time on farms and other then the State Fair, I don't think I'd ever seen cows and pigs up close (that is, unless you count how "close" you get while driving down the road.) Therefore, I was unprepared.

Al fairly warned me. I had a bag full of "grungy" clothes (which consisted of a pair of overalls and a plaid shirt I'd purchased that week at the thrift store.) Apparently, I thought he was taking me to farm with the Beverly Hillbillys. I had also brought my Esprit rubber galoshes (affectionately called "designer shit-kickers") which I anticipated wearing into the pig barns, but was promptly informed that I shouldn't unless I "wanted them to smell like shit for the rest of my life."

Needless to say, I didn't wear them.

Turns out I didn't need to.

Al's dad ("dad-D") took me down to look at the pigs, but I never stepped foot inside. Al wanted me to get up the next morning and help them with chores.

I politely informed him that I didn't get up at 5AM for many reasons, and slopping pig crap WAS NOT going to be one of them. He'd just have to forgive me for that one.

So, I luxuriously slept in while he helped dad-D.

Later that day, we met up with a group of his friends to go four-wheeling.

I had never been four-wheeling before and I especially had never been "mudding" before (which is really just a dirtier version of the first.) As I said, I was prepared clothing-wise for the adventure. I had an old, grungy pair of jeans, a hoodie and bandana.

Take note of how clean we are in the "before" shot.

We were ready to go...Or not. Al took me on a ride around the farm a few times to make sure the 4-wheeler was in good shape (we'd find out later this wasn't a very thorough test) and in doing so I realized I really wanted to wear a helmet.

Don't get me wrong, Al was a safe driver.

It was more my lack of inexperience that I feared would cause me to do something stupid and get hurt. I like to say that my brain is my "money-maker", so it's worthwhile to make sure it's appropriately protected.

And being the amazing man he is, he spent the next 30 minutes finding me a helmet.

(Let me stop for a minute to make TWO observations: One) these guys grow up driving tractors, ATVs and the like so the idea of wanting a helmet was preposterous. Once he stopped rolling his eyes at my insistence, he took care of it. Two) this also means that helmets are hard to come by.)

Luckily we found one and could head off to meet his friends.

When we got there, more teasing over the helmet ensued. But after they realized that I would NOT hesitate to kick some country-bumpkin-ass, they let it go and we were off.

Let me tell you, this was the MOST fun I've ever had. Really.

We were out for hours, just tooling around the country-side. Since it was March and most of the snow had JUST melted, there was plenty of mud to work with.

I had mud from my cleavage to my butt-crack and I didn't care. At one point, I was helping Al find good mud patches so we could spray one of the other riders or whip a couple donuts and spray ourselves. It was seriously a incredible time.

Until the whole experience went south.

First was the creek, which was much higher then we expected because of the recent melt.

(Ever played Oregon Trail? You NEVER forge the river and make it in one piece!)

We had just seen a bunch of guys come out of there unscathed, so we thought we'd give it a try. Al's step-brother had a brand new 4-wheeler, so he went first and the rest of us followed. We made it through the creek and out the other side. And then our ATV shut down. We were MILES from the nearest house or road and a good 20 minutes from home.

So we got out a rope and towed the broken ATV behind the brand new one (which came with a tow hitch and everything.) Until we came to the pond.

I don't entirely recall who's idea it was to try to cross said pond. I know it wasn't mine or Al's.

But the first guy headed across and made it, so everyone else blindly followed thinking it was an excellent idea.

3 hours later, we have FINALLY gotten 2 of the 4 ATV's safely to the other side. One is still stuck a foot-deep in the pond and the other is that poor, brand-new 4-wheeler, that we used to pull everyone else out. Another 30 minutes and we were ready to go. Even with the break-down and the drowning, it was still one of the best experiences I'd ever had.

That night, we cleaned up and went out to the town bar. Yes, there is only one, it's where everyone goes, and they KNOW when you're not from around there. It didn't take long for me to fit right in (once I started drinking, of course.) I met a bunch of his childhood friends. I drank some more. I met some of the guys dad-D "talks farm" with. I drank some more. I danced with his sister-in-law and best friends' wife. I was still drinking.

And by the end of the night I was drunk. Extremely drunk.

I threw up on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Dad-D had arrived 20 minutes earlier in anticipation of driving us home safely. When we got back to the farm, Al went upstairs to bed and I told him I'd join him as soon as I went to the bathroom.

An hour later, dad-D came into the bathroom to find me passed out on the floor.

(Did I mention this was the first real impression they had of me?!)
His response to me being passed out, was to open the window "so I had fresh air" and proceed back to bed. I woke up 30 minutes later shivering (HELLO! It was March in Minnesota) and made my way upstairs. Al (who was also drunk, though seemingly less drunk than I was) asked me "where I'd been" for the last 10 minutes. I responded that I had passed out and it had been much longer then 10 minutes, but I wasn't sure how many.

I sat down on the edge of my bed and told Al he might need to help me get my pants off.

(I know what you're thinking and yes, this is one of my proudest moments.) You see, I was wearing extremely tight jeans and didn't have the dexterity to remove them myself. I don't even think he saw it as a sexual thing as much as a standard boyfriend duty when your girlfriend is too drunk to function.

After helping me get ready for bed, he kissed me.

Al: "You threw up."

Me: "Yes."

Al: "At the bar?"

Me: "Yes. Should i brush my teeth?"

Al: "Naw."

{pause}

Me: "I love you."

This was the first time either of us had said it. I don't remember if he responded.

I rolled over and passed out.

In the harsh light of morning/afternoon, we woke up to the smell of bacon. The absolute BEST thing about dad-D owning a hog farm is that you get the most delicious bacon you'll ever have. It's amazing. We stumbled downstairs in our hungover stupor and devoured our breakfast. Over eggs, I mumbled some apology about getting drunk and passing out on their bathroom floor.

Dad-D laughed and said that he'd expect nothing less and was happy that I'd "fit right in." Turns out, everyone was reasonably impressed with my ability to handle my alcohol throughout the night and thought I was a "fun girl." Who knew?

After breakfast, we spent the rest of the day in bed. It wasn't so much that we wanted to, but we needed to. We were both so tired and so sick that entire day and it was really the only option that didn't make me want to die. It turned out to be one of the best days of our relationship.

I brought up what was said the night before.

(Yeah, that thing I said when I was drunk that I wasn't 100% sure I meant...)

We didn't talk about it much, but we both repeated the sentiment again, knowing this time that we both meant it. (Romantic, huh?) Then we took a nap.

I woke up later to the sound of my stomach. It was THAT loud. My stomach was grumbling so bad that it woke Al up too. He looked at me funny and put his ear to my stomach.

"What do you have in there?" he asked.

"Who knows?!" was my reply.

After another loud grumble he informed me that it sounded a lot like soldiers doing cadence.

This was the birth of the tummy soldiers.

We spent hours with his head on my stomach and every time something new happened, the Army was "on the move" or "doing drills" or "getting into formation." I was laughing so hard. And every time I'd laugh, my stomach would get more active.

Soon the soldiers were plotting out their "plan of attack" and "infiltrating the enemy."

I was in tears from the laughter, darn near hysterical, and he was enjoying every minute of it.

It was the first time he'd seen me laugh like that.

(There are really only two people who can make me laugh like that, Al and my sister.)

Thankfully, it wasn't the last time. In fact, it was the start of many occasions where that man makes me laugh so incredibly hard I think I might lose circulation to my brain.

He would be going back to the airport the next afternoon and there were so many people we wanted to see. We canceled lunch plans with his sister and dinner plans with Grandma. We were pretty much lazy and worthless the whole rest of the weekend. Nevertheless, I don't think we could have picked a better way to spend our short time together. Just me, him, and the Army inside my belly.

{Coming up in part 3: we both make a big gamble...}