She said: I married a wild and crazy dude in a rock’n'roll band. At least I thought I did. As it turns out, only the dude in a rock’n'roll band part is accurate. Wild and crazy? Not so much. I tend to be the wilder and the crazier one of this marriage. And when I say crazy, I mean it, as in, not fun crazy. Certifiably crazy. Chase you down the driveway with a shovel crazy.
For the longest time, the first five years of our marriage to be exact, the inherent differences in our personalities weren’t so much of a problem. I mean, sure we argued when we went to Venice, Italy for the first time and the rock’n'roller wanted to have every little move planned out while I wanted to fly by the seat of our pants but, for the most part, these particular differences weren’t so very obvious. And then, three years ago, we had our first child, our daughter Violet…
He said: To be honest, one of the very first things I noticed about my wife, Monica, was that she wasn’t bashful about the fact that she seemed to really enjoy her Jagermeister shots. Not that that was the first quality that I was looking for in my particular Love Quest, because it wasn’t.
It was like the second or third.
But still, there was something savagely attractive about a wild west Utah woman, a Mormon pioneer’s direct descendent, sucking down bolts of lightning syrup with the zest of a 1000-year old Viking who simply forgot to die.
And yet, soon after, when I really started to get to know her: I discovered someone way more practical, someone way more mature than me. She was a successful TV producer at 27; she had her own condo, her own SUV, and her commitment to her career and her future and saving money and all of those different “grown-up” things was so attractive.
This girl, this woman was made of way stronger stuff than me. She was, I daresay, responsible. Well, I mean, I thought she was…