In which Jess is excellent at flirting.

The news cycle has been hard to handle for the last few days/weeks/years. In light of that, I thought I would distract us all with the hilarious tale of how I convinced the Hippie to fall madly in love with me. Buckle up, because this is some adorable shit.


 Yes. We went to Spec’s on the way to our wedding reception. We’re classy AF.

Yes. We went to Spec’s on the way to our wedding reception. We’re classy AF.

The Hippie meets the Mermaid

I was new to town, and my dad offered me up as tribute to a friend who desperately needed a set of hands in her cafe kitchen. I was grossly unqualified, but due to the fact that people don’t like disappointing my dad (to be fair, he’s essentially a puppy dressed as a human), I got the job.

My first day, I was quickly shown around the kitchen, and asked to make scones. My Prince Charming came around the corner, ready to start work for the day. With the gusto that comes only from a man whose life is about to change forever he proclaimed to the kitchen “Happy Thursday every— who the hell are YOU?”. There was nobody behind me. He was indeed talking to me. I stammered something that might have been my name. It’s hard to remember, as I was clearly swept clean off my feet.

Fast Forward 4-6 Months

There was this SUPER hot guy with long hair who used to hang out at the counter at the same time that I was usually guzzling coffee and getting ready for my shift in the kitchen. Throw in the fact that he was crazy intelligent and made me laugh, and… yeah. I was smitten. We had a good rapport going, but it always got cut short by me having to clock in and make the foods. The cute guy I had dubbed “Hippie” always vanished around then as well. I had no clue how our schedules were so in sync, but I tried not to question it, and would go about my life. Inevitably, my boss would come around the corner right after I’d settled into my tasks for the day, and thus a shift full of eye contact avoidance and keeping my head down would begin. A number of my co-workers had warned me that he was probably going to yell at me, and thus far I’d managed to avoid the wrath of the boss-man.

Related sidenote that explains why this is relevant to the current news cycle: I was involved romantically at the time with a man who would later be added to the list of my abusers. To say that I was a terrified, broken woman at the time was a harsh understatement for the constant fear and anxiety that I lived with daily. My spirit couldn’t handle anymore harsh words than it was already absorbing regularly, hence the all-out avoidance strategy.

Anyhow, one day I was sitting at the counter indulging in an extra cup of coffee and chatting with the Hippie man. I decided that for that day, I was going to do the impossible. I was going to be brave and ask his name. The conversation went something like this…

Me: So, I know it’s been awhile, but what’s your name? I kinda suck at names.

Him: …wait, really?

Me: I know! I’m awful, but I have no clue what your name is, but please don’t feel bad! I’m like this with everybody.

Him: struggles not to laugh Um… give it a minute.

Me: Huh?

He then proceeded to start twisting back his hair (still trying to keep a straight face), and pulled it into a knot on top of his head. When he put a hat on, I began praying for the floorboards to split apart, and for the earth to accept me into her loving embrace.

He was my boss. I’d been casually flirting with the supervisor I’d been so scared of for the last few months, and had been utterly unaware the entire time.

I was maybe a little flustered for the rest of the day. Maybe a lot.

Ok, definitely a lot.

Because later that evening, after I had resumed my policy of avoiding any and all eye contact with him (my face was still beet red), I was struggling with a bag of cheese. I couldn’t get the damn thing open to save my life, so I grabbed a knife and began trying to use it to open the cheese. The Hippie (who very kindly didn’t bring up the counter incident) noticed that I was probably about to send myself to the ER for stitches, came up to try and help me in my hour of distress, and… I sliced open his hand.

Happily Ever After

I generally do not recommend the “slice open the love of your life” method of assessing whether or not your person is really committed to sticking with you come hell or high water. However either I must have done something right, or the Hippie is a sadist, because we began dating a little less than a year later, and a little more than a year after that our son was born. Baby #2 is one rough sneeze away from joining the party, and we’re pretty happy with our life together.

Why do I tell you this tale of stabby beginnings? Maybe it’s because it’s hilarious. Maybe it’s because we all need something to take our mind off the hellstorm that is the current socio-political scene in our country. Maybe both. Either way, that’s my love story. It’s bizarre, pointy, and as with most things in my life, proves that cheese leads to good things.