saw
that it was a note in Kip’s handwriting. It said: I’m crackers about you.
Will you marry me? Taped to the back of the paper was a ten-carat diamond
ring.
Who
could have resisted a setup like that? Not schmaltzy, love-starved Mazie
Maguire. For the first time in my life I wasn’t being cautious and timid. I was
being wild and adventurous. I was following my heart. That’s what I told myself
and that’s what I allowed myself to believe. Of course I said yes. I wanted to
marry Kip Vonnerjohn; I wanted to share his life and toothbrush and head colds;
I wanted to have his babies. I was head over heels, giddy-gaga-dumbass in love
with him.
If
my parents had been there, they would have warned me that fourteen dates is not
enough time to get to know someone. Kip and I knew each other’s favorite songs,
most embarrassing moment from junior high school, and favorite sexual
positions, but we hadn’t asked the big questions. Such as: Does this person
keep his promises? Nor had we delved into the smaller questions:joint
accounts or separate? Open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas day? Who
controls the air-conditioning? We didn’t delve into them because we were too
busy delving into each other. Kip, nearly nine years older than I, was the
first guy I’d been with who knew his way around a woman’s body. As sexually
inexperienced as I was, I equated orgasms with love.
I should have
seen the warning signs. They were there, as clear as a ragged-edge mole
exhibiting the seven warning signs of melanoma: the fact that Kip kept putting
off introducing me to his mother. That he took off work whenever he felt like
it and spent money like a sailor on shore leave. That his eyes glazed over when
I brought up politics or social issues or anything more complicated than the
latest celebrity scandal.
Recent studies
have shown that the human brain doesn’t fully develop until age twenty-eight. I
had just turned twenty-four. That’s as good an explanation as any to explain
the stupidity of my decision. Driven by lust, blinded by hero worship, and too
immature to know better, I plunged into matrimony.
Escape tip #6:
If it’s crazy but it works,
it ain’t crazy.
Wanda’s
van came with all the bells and whistles. It had satellite radio, GPS, and
television sets mounted above the front and back seats. Given the hyperactivity
level of Wanda’s kids, it seemed a good idea to have some brain-numbing
entertainment available in the rear seats, but the driver-mounted set was
worrisome. Do you want Wanda Kronenwetter watching Dancing with the Stars while she’s hurtling toward you at seventy miles an hour?
Wanda’s
pimped-out van, with its Kung Fu Panda suction-cupped to the windows, wasn’t
exactly inconspicuous. She’d probably reported the van stolen by now. I’d been
driving it for more than an hour and was already pushing my luck. I needed to
ditch it, and soon.
A road sign
loomed. Sheboygan 16 miles. Vonnerjohn 4 miles .
Vonnerjohn?
Of course! This
was where Atticus had been guiding me all along. Suddenly I knew exactly where
I could dump the van and pick up a new set of wheels. Taking the next exit, I
turned onto a secondary road and drove into the town of Vonnerjohn, hoping
nothing had changed since I’d last been here about five years ago.
Three guesses who
the town is named for. This is the holy of holies—the site where the
first Vonnerjohn plumbing factory was erected over a century ago. The small
brick cottages that were once workers’ housing have been converted to shops,
galleries, and restaurants, but the town’s main attraction is the old plumbing
factory. It’s now the Vonnerjohn Design Center, a showroom for company
products. Weird as it sounds, the place is a tourist mecca, drawing thousands
of visitors a
that it was a note in Kip’s handwriting. It said: I’m crackers about you.
Will you marry me? Taped to the back of the paper was a ten-carat diamond
ring.
Who
could have resisted a setup like that? Not schmaltzy, love-starved Mazie
Maguire. For the first time in my life I wasn’t being cautious and timid. I was
being wild and adventurous. I was following my heart. That’s what I told myself
and that’s what I allowed myself to believe. Of course I said yes. I wanted to
marry Kip Vonnerjohn; I wanted to share his life and toothbrush and head colds;
I wanted to have his babies. I was head over heels, giddy-gaga-dumbass in love
with him.
If
my parents had been there, they would have warned me that fourteen dates is not
enough time to get to know someone. Kip and I knew each other’s favorite songs,
most embarrassing moment from junior high school, and favorite sexual
positions, but we hadn’t asked the big questions. Such as: Does this person
keep his promises? Nor had we delved into the smaller questions:joint
accounts or separate? Open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas day? Who
controls the air-conditioning? We didn’t delve into them because we were too
busy delving into each other. Kip, nearly nine years older than I, was the
first guy I’d been with who knew his way around a woman’s body. As sexually
inexperienced as I was, I equated orgasms with love.
I should have
seen the warning signs. They were there, as clear as a ragged-edge mole
exhibiting the seven warning signs of melanoma: the fact that Kip kept putting
off introducing me to his mother. That he took off work whenever he felt like
it and spent money like a sailor on shore leave. That his eyes glazed over when
I brought up politics or social issues or anything more complicated than the
latest celebrity scandal.
Recent studies
have shown that the human brain doesn’t fully develop until age twenty-eight. I
had just turned twenty-four. That’s as good an explanation as any to explain
the stupidity of my decision. Driven by lust, blinded by hero worship, and too
immature to know better, I plunged into matrimony.
Escape tip #6:
If it’s crazy but it works,
it ain’t crazy.
Wanda’s
van came with all the bells and whistles. It had satellite radio, GPS, and
television sets mounted above the front and back seats. Given the hyperactivity
level of Wanda’s kids, it seemed a good idea to have some brain-numbing
entertainment available in the rear seats, but the driver-mounted set was
worrisome. Do you want Wanda Kronenwetter watching Dancing with the Stars while she’s hurtling toward you at seventy miles an hour?
Wanda’s
pimped-out van, with its Kung Fu Panda suction-cupped to the windows, wasn’t
exactly inconspicuous. She’d probably reported the van stolen by now. I’d been
driving it for more than an hour and was already pushing my luck. I needed to
ditch it, and soon.
A road sign
loomed. Sheboygan 16 miles. Vonnerjohn 4 miles .
Vonnerjohn?
Of course! This
was where Atticus had been guiding me all along. Suddenly I knew exactly where
I could dump the van and pick up a new set of wheels. Taking the next exit, I
turned onto a secondary road and drove into the town of Vonnerjohn, hoping
nothing had changed since I’d last been here about five years ago.
Three guesses who
the town is named for. This is the holy of holies—the site where the
first Vonnerjohn plumbing factory was erected over a century ago. The small
brick cottages that were once workers’ housing have been converted to shops,
galleries, and restaurants, but the town’s main attraction is the old plumbing
factory. It’s now the Vonnerjohn Design Center, a showroom for company
products. Weird as it sounds, the place is a tourist mecca, drawing thousands
of visitors a
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