Valentine Loves

Online Love

One September morning I sat down in front of my computer and there was an instant message on my screen. The gentleman left me a message after he realized that I had stepped away from my computer. He told me a little about himself and asked if I could do the same by sending him an email. I didn't respond, no reason in particular.

The very next day around the same time he instant message me again. Once again I was not there in front of my computer. He told me that he saw me in a chat room a few nights ago but couldn't get nerves up to speak to me. He said it was my profile that intrigued him. But by the time he made up his mind to speak to me, I left.

This time I did respond to him. I never told him my name but I did thank him for all his kind words. Later that day he caught me online and we chatted. I learned that he was in the military due to retire in three months. Over the next few weeks we communicated with each other via emails, online chats and phone calls. The second day that I had spoke with him, I knew he was special.

Within a month we fell madly in love with each other. He had planned to come see me when he retired, there was talk of him relocating to the state where I lived.

Then one night he told me that his stay in the military had been extended and he was told his unit will be sent to Iraq. Neither one of us could believe this. He told me that if I wanted to end our relationship, as strange as it would sound, he would understand. He thought it was unfair of him to ask me to wait only God knows how long. But because of the love I had in my heart for this man, I stayed.

Hear we are, eight months later still seperated by distance, but more in love with each than we ever thought possible. The way things look, we may not see each other for months to come. But every day that passes is one closer we are to being together. We plan to marry once all this is over. This man has became a part of me, he completes me in every way possible. We both were afraid in the beginning because of previous realationships. Neither one of us was willing to risk the heartache. But we could not stop what was there...Love.

Love on Internet

Yes, I’m one of those women who met her true love on the Internet. I’ve chatted with quite a few people about how they fell in love with someone they met online. Frankly, I thought they were crazy…until it happened to me.

HOW can you love someone, yet even be IN LOVE with someone that you never met? Don’t you need to see that person face to face? And touch—a hug or holding hands. And what about the ever-so-important kiss? Don’t you need that to see if you have a connection? How can you feel anything for a person that you never have spent time with, as in going to the movies or a restaurant?

I just thought it was impossible. Then…one day I was chatting away in a Christian singles chat room on AOL. There were a bunch of us in the room talking about how we just want to meet someone—someone who was Christian, who was nice, and of course, single. This man named Richard made a few comments that peaked my interest. Within a few minutes we were chatting via Instant Message.

We clicked right away. I’d say I like something, he’d say he did, too. Yes, I know that can easily be lied about, but there were tons of times he said he liked something, and I liked the same thing. Same went for things we hate. Our religious and belief system was the same. The types of movies and music we liked were just about a perfect match. The main differences were that he liked classic country and I liked classical. The part that I hated was that we were around 325 miles apart—him in northern Kentucky and me in north-central West Virginia.

Let me put a timeline on this…we estimate (neither of us are positive) that we met online 2-4 days after Thanksgiving in 2004. We chatted online for no more than a week before we talked on the phone. I had a cell phone with unlimited long distance. Believe me, I took full advantage of those “free” minutes. We talked and talked and talked. We talked until my cell phone died and the second it did I put it on charger. I about went out of my mind waiting for about an hour until there was some time on it. Then we talked and talked and talked until—you guessed it—the phone died again. It was a cycle that repeated many times a day—and night

It was now around December 10, and my then 4-year-old son and I were at my parents’ time share resort in western Maryland (about 80 miles from my home). My parents had their normal week of the time share starting on the 17th, but they were offered the week before for almost nothing since the people in the same condo weren’t going to be able to make it. My father was still teaching so he could only go to the resort on the 10th, 11th, and 12th, during that first week. My mother stayed at home when he didn’t go to the resort. They did that to give me and my son some time together before my parents would be there for the whole week that ran from the 17th to the 24th.

Yes, my son and I did spend some nice time together—mostly watching TV and swimming. But, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Richard. This time I got smart and kept the cell phone plugged in while we were talking, which meant it took longer for the battery to die. We mostly talked after my son went to bed, until around six in the morning. I didn’t get much sleep, as not too much past six, my son was awake and rearing to go. He still doesn’t know how to sleep in!

When Richard and I talked, I couldn’t understand what was happening. I had feelings for him, but were they real? Was it just my loneliness making me desperate for love? Was it wishful thinking? Apparently he was wondering the same things. One day I asked him if he was feeling something. He said yes, and then I said I did, too. I very nervously asked if it was love. A little pause, then he said yes, and then I said I felt the same way. I then commented that it doesn’t seem just like love, but as if I am IN love. He said it seemed that way for him, too. We went back and forth commenting on how we could feel that way without at least meeting each other. Neither of us had any explanation for it, but we now knew it was for real. After we said how we loved each other, we constantly kept saying “this is so weird.”

Now that we knew the other person felt the same, we knew we had to meet. I think it was on the day after my parents came up for that last week, that I asked my parents if there was any way that Richard could come to the resort so we can meet. I figured there was no way they would agree to this—especially to him staying at the resort for a couple nights. After some thought and talking to Richard, my parents said yes.

On Tuesday, December 21, we met in person. As planned, he called when he got to the BP gas station which was about 3 miles from the resort. I went there to meet him. Honestly (and he knows this!), when I saw him, I felt nothing. We hugged and still nothing. I was like you have to be kidding me! All of this and no click? We went to the resort where he met my parents and my son (who he talked with on the phone many times). After exchanging those ever-so-painstaking pleasantries, Richard and I went off on our first date.

We went to a nearby town and decided to stop at an old fashioned train station with a small museum. A train was coming right after we got out of the car, so we stood on the platform and watched it go by. He was a few feet from me when I looked over at him, and I about died. He was smoking, and I’m so against it: my grandfather had lung cancer and I can’t stand to breathe the smoke and it makes my allergies go nuts. I’m sure I had the “deer caught in the headlights” look when I said something like, “You didn’t tell me you smoked!” He assumed I heard him flick the lighter when he lit a cigarette when we talked on the phone. I guess from not being around smokers (my grandfather never smoked around me) I didn’t catch the sound. I thought he might as well go back to his car and head home. But instead--Pizza Hut here we come!

We sat at a booth—a must if you ask me. We decided on, if I recall right, a supreme pan pizza (pan is also a must if you ask me!) and some breadsticks. We were kind of quiet…me probably dwelling on the fact that he smoked and was ticked off that he didn’t tell me. For some reason I never thought to ask. Then, he did something that changed everything…he reached out and held my hand. I melted. I felt as though I was going to slide under the table. With that one touch, I fell in love so deeply. We ate and went back to the resort where we watched some TV and a DVD I rented with a whole comedy routine by Larry the Cable Guy. We cuddled on the couch, but no kiss. We hugged goodnight, with me wanting to kiss him so bad I was going to go insane.

The next day we went swimming and I discovered another “problem.” Richard had tattoos. I’ve never been fond of tattoos and never pictured myself with a man who had them. Oh, what the heck, opposites attract, right? We had a good time in the pool—getting some more touching than holding hands, as he would cradle hold me in the water or I would get behind him and put my arms around him—but not kiss. My father made dinner that evening, his killer lasagna, and we spent more time watching TV and a movie. We just did the goodnight hug…ugh.

Not even five minutes after he went downstairs to his bedroom I realized I had my pajamas in his room (I had to use that room’s closet for my clothes as the loft me and my son were sleeping in didn’t have one). I knocked on the room saying it was me and he said come on in. He was already in bed. I told him what I needed and got them. I was heading back to the door saying goodnight and I stopped, turned around, and said, “Are we too chicken sh** to kiss, or what?” He said no. I went over to the bed, kneeled on the floor, and he raised up and we kissed—finally! As Jesse from “Full House” would say, “Have Mercy!”

The next day we left the resort and went to my grandmother’s house where Richard could meet her. She, my mother’s mother, lived right around the corner from my parents. He ended up spending the night at her house with me. He left the next afternoon, Friday the 24th, to go back home so he could spend Christmas with his two daughters from a previous marriage.

Before we even met in person he said he’d like to come back to visit a month or so after the visit around Christmas. After we met, he said would come back in probably 3 weeks. As he was ready to leave, he said he’d be back in no more than 2 weeks. After he left, and we talked on the phone, he said he had to come back, like, now. Richard came back on Tuesday, the 28th, and brought one of his daughters with him. We stayed at my grandmother’s since there was room there and not at my parents.

I had the feeling he was going to ask me to marry him when he came back. I even had my reaction planned—I had to make it something different. Tuesday night—technically Wednesday the 29th now—while we were cuddling on the couch, he asked, “Will you marry me?” I said, “Well, I’ll have to think about it,” and turned my head to the right and instantly faced him again, and said, “YES!” He gave me a “you little stinker” look and kissed me.

We finally got married on October 8, 2005. We are still married and in a town in northeast Kentucky. We have our ups and downs, usually daily, but I’m still madly in love. As to our differences: Richard is in week two of quitting smoking, and no, I haven’t gotten a tattoo…yet.

Seven year love story

could not decide what to wear to work. As an image-conscious seventeen-year-old, I felt like I needed to look a certain way at all times, but today I wasn’t sure what way. I eventually decided that I needed to look the most like myself, so I settled on “alternative”—this was in the mid-1990s when grunge rock was all the rage. So I wore a flannel shirt, some chunky loafers, and my hip black glasses. In reality, the outfit was probably a nightmare, a huge Fashion Don’t. I know it was.

The reason for my preoccupation that day was that I was training the boy who was replacing me in my summer job at the video store. The next week, I was returning to boarding school for my senior year, so this was the first day of my last week at work. My boss had told me the day before that the son of her neighbor, named Jeremy, would be taking my place.

I had never met Jeremy, but I knew of him. He went to church with my friend Amanda, who was always swooning about any one of the members of his group of friends. He played for his high school basketball team, and I knew he was starting college in the fall, so right there I was magnificently intimidated: a jock and a college boy.

A little bit about me at age seventeen: totally inhibited and shy. I mean, painfully, paralyzingly, poignantly shy, to the point that I didn’t even want to speak in front of strangers. Ever.

So training a popular, potentially cute college boy was almost too much.

I have only a couple of vague memories of how the day went. My clearest memory is of Jeremy walking into the store. The entire storefront was glass, and the mid-morning sun was bright and blinding. He walks in the door, this tall, broad-shouldered boy, and all I remember is his shadowy figure sauntering confidently toward me.

God, I was so nervous. I felt like the biggest moron all day long. I hardly remember anything, except teaching him the procedure for trading out the empty movie box for the video. In fact, I remember very little about that entire week of working with him, except for one thing. After a couple of shifts together, Jeremy started flirting with me.

Every day, he would say either “So when are we going out?” or “So when are you going to give me your number?” I would just laugh, even though I had a total crush on him. He had such a fun way about him, and he made me laugh a lot. Plus, he was massively tall and had that basketball player build. I was a goner.

I remember telling my friend Stephanie about him and the flirting. I had this plan—I always made up plans involving boys—that one night when he was scheduled to close the store, I would leave my phone number and a cute little note taped to the breaker box in the back of the store, so that he’d find it when he turned out the lights before locking up.

Remember how I mentioned I was shy? Well, I was so shy that I not only couldn’t bring myself to leave my number, but I couldn’t even fathom why he was flirting with me in the first place. I honestly thought he was just kidding, trying to embarrass me. I was terrified that if I left my number, he wouldn’t call. Or he would think I was super pathetic for taking his “jokes” seriously. I told myself it wouldn’t do any good, leaving my number, because in a matter of weeks I’d be away at school anyway.

Thinking back on it, I still become giddy. I can't believe I doubted his sincerity, and part of me wishes I had responded to his “hints.” Can you imagine being eighteen and having a girl laugh in your face? Over and over again? And continuing to come back for more? What was I thinking?

Anyway, I never left my number for him, and we never went out. I went away to school, and my friend Stephanie promptly began dating Jeremy. I didn’t let it bother me, since I lived out of town most of the time. When I’d come home on weekends, Stephanie, Jeremy, and I would get together sometimes for dinner or a movie. I vividly remember one night when we all went back to my house to watch The Usual Suspects. Jeremy and Stephanie were all laid out on my sofa, cuddling and whispering and making out during the movie. I fell asleep. I have still never seen that whole movie (to this day, he denies dating Stephanie. I have no idea why.).

After a few weeks, Stephanie told me that Jeremy wasn’t calling her anymore, and eventually she found out that he had gotten back together with an old girlfriend. I was secretly very pleased about this.

And that was the last I heard about him for that whole year and half of the next. I graduated from high school, got a serious boyfriend, and went away to college. After my first semester, I decided to transfer back to my hometown university. I told people it was because I hated the school, but really it was because I wanted to be closer to the boyfriend.

That relationship was less than perfect—far less. I don’t know why I stayed in it as long as I did. I walked around in a fog for almost two years. But because of that relationship, I found myself back home, and one day walking to class I saw Jeremy.

He was with a girl—cute enough, kind of uptight-looking, with curly dark hair. I was walking toward them, but getting closer I got a vibe from him that I was not welcome to say hello. So I didn’t. I just smiled a little smile and kept walking.

Months later, I saw him again—this time, my boyfriend and I had gone to a Renaissance Festival a few hours out of town. Jeremy was there with the same girl. We were all purchasing our tickets at the same time. Again, we didn’t speak.

Months later, maybe even a year or more, we had a class together. Creative writing. As I remember, he was already seated when I got to class. I sat down next to him, and it was like the previous two years or so of hardly seeing or speaking to each other had been only two weeks. We picked up right where we left off… minus the flirting.

As I mentioned, we were in a creative writing class, and everyone in the class had a pet subject they always seemed to write about. Mine was my deteriorating relationship with my mother. One girl wrote about her son a lot. One guy wrote about sports. Jeremy wrote about his recent breakup with Curly Girl.

The breakup seemed pretty fresh in his mind. He wrote about it, and in the brief chats we’d have before and after class, he talked about it sometimes, too. They had been engaged and were planning a wedding. He even told me about the nacho bar he insisted on having at the reception, which I found pretty cute. Jeremy loves nachos.

Curly had a young daughter whom Jeremy adored—he still carried her picture in his wallet. He was pretty affected by the whole thing, so needless to say, he wasn’t flirting with me anymore.

So we became really good friends. We eventually began working together again at our college publications, where the employees were very tightly knit and sociable. We both hung out at one particular coffee shop in town. We found ourselves in the same circles all the time. But the flirting was long gone.

This friendship lasted throughout the remainder of our college and grad school years. We were incredibly in sync. One strong bond we shared was a deep love for the band Alkaline Trio—Jeremy and I traveled all over to see them play. We always found ourselves in the same places at the same time, especially that coffee shop. We would spend hours sitting there, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes (these were the days before we cared about our health and before the No Smoking ordinances!), talking about Big Issues or playing movie trivia games or having inane conversations.

There was a brief time in there when the flirtation, or something like it, resumed. I had just finished my undergraduate studies and moved into my first apartment on my own. Jeremy would come over almost every day. He was in summer school, and he would bring his homework and just hang out. I’d make dinner. We’d watch reruns of Mad About You. It was like we were married, without all the private details.

One night I got up the courage to ask him out. He turned me down. I was mortified.

Except for an awkward hiding-under-a-rock phase after this incident, we remained friends. But I was still interested in him “that way.” Every time he got a new girlfriend, I would watch him with her, analyzing and critiquing her down to the last detail, trying to find all the points where she was wrong for Jeremy. I could always find lots of points.

I also kept my eye on his female friends, and I could smell it from afar when one of them got interested in him. I vented to my friends that he was a blind jackass if he didn’t see how right we were for each other.
So many clues told me we were right for each other, not the least of which was the fact that we were an unstoppable force when playing the game Taboo. You have these cards that list your key word at the top and five or so banned words below it. You have to describe the keyword and get your partner to say it, but you’re not allowed to use the banned words in your description. We were renegades in that game—no one has ever beaten us. We’re so good at it that we don’t play it anymore, because it’s kind of unfair to the other teams.

Our advantage in Taboo is the fact that we are completely in sync. It’s kind of uncanny. Seriously, it’s like we can read each other’s minds. It has always been that way.

So we stayed good friends, he dated what felt like 1,000 girls, and I waited. I didn’t realize I was waiting. But I was waiting.

One particular relationship of his got fairly serious, and it was with a girl who was all wrong for him. She was too young, too dumb. She wore novelty tees. She couldn't even get into bars legally, and yet here Jeremy was living with her. I was beginning to lose hope. And then she moved away.

I just knew it was my turn. Finally. It had to be, right?

No.

He started dating someone else almost immediately, someone I approved of even less than the previous girl, which I didn’t even think possible. And at that point, I decided I was not holding out for Jeremy anymore.

So I stopped. For the first time in years, I was truly not interested in Jeremy romantically at all. I quit smoking. I began working out. I meditated. It was all about me.

A few weeks later I had to have emergency surgery. A couple of days after my surgery, a flower delivery came. Roses. I remember thinking as I opened the card, I hope these are from Jeremy. But they were from my dad.

That same day, Jeremy called. He said he had heard about my surgery and just wanted to make sure I was ok. Between my tender reaction to that phone call and my dashed hopes about the flowers, those were my last two Jeremy pangs.

Months went by. He kept dating that girl. I went about my business. Then one day in early spring, Jeremy and my best friend Summer were over at my apartment, and I had an anxiety attack.

Feeling sick, I went into the bathroom, and I fainted. They heard me fall, but somehow I had locked the door, so they couldn’t get in. Jeremy had to break down the bathroom door. He helped me up. I was wobbly. He put his arm around me to help me walk.

I leaned into him, placed my hand on his chest, and said, “I'm afraid.” I remember feeling like I was melting into him, and for that brief second all my anxiety was gone and I felt so comfortable. That moment felt so incredibly intimate that I was shocked. I jerked my hand away quickly, embarrassed. We went to the hospital and everything was fine. My mother picked me up, and Jeremy and Summer went on their way.

Summer later told me that as Jeremy was driving her back to her own car, he was going on and on about how he thought they had done the right thing, how he was so glad they had been with me when it happened, how he hoped he hadn’t broken my bathroom door when he punched it in. She remarked that his concern was deep and palpable.

Five days after was my twenty-fourth birthday. It was a Friday, and I went over to Summer’s for a little birthday gathering before we all went out. Several friends, including Jeremy, were there, and they gave me their thrift-store birthday gifts. Summer gave me this incredible wood fish (I’m a Pisces) painted with an intricate, mystical-looking design. My sister gave me a little teal blue teacup and saucer with a fish design. Those were the inaugural pieces in my fish collection.

Jeremy had also gotten me a gift, and that was a first in our seven years of friendship. He gave me an engraved and painted clay plate that had a decidedly Grecian feel. There was a delicate border around the edge, encircling the image of a woman in silhouette, seated, playing a harp. Her head is bent slightly forward; her eyes are closed; her fingers are poised on the strings. I caught my breath when I pulled it out of the bag. The plate is beautiful. The woman is serene and connected.

I got the most unusual feeling from this gift. Had Summer or my sister given me the plate, I would have thought it was beautiful and I would have loved it, but it would not have had the same feeling that it had coming from Jeremy. I can’t explain it.

Around the same time, one day, I ran into Jeremy at the coffee shop. I plunked down next to him at the bar, and he pulled a CD from his bag with the words “Songs You Don’t Know” scribbled on the label in his handwriting. He said he remembered this one song I mentioned that I liked (a year and a half beforehand), so he burned it for me, along with some others that he thought I would like.

When he handed it to me, I had this flashback to a conversation we’d had with another friend a long time ago about what it means when you give a girl a “mix tape.” Jeremy and Heath, the other friend, maintained that making a mix tape for someone was a pretty big gesture of interest.

But I blew off the thought and just said, “How sweet! Thank you!”

When I slid the CD into my car’s player, the first song I heard was the one I already knew. I skipped it, and the second song was a new one. As soon as it began my heart started racing.

It was the song “66” by the Afghan Whigs, and from the first sassy, upbeat strum of the guitar I loved it. I can’t explain it—there are very few songs that have evoked such a visceral reaction out of me so immediately. But that song struck all my chords.

Then the singer’s breathy voice—“Yeah.” He sounded incredibly sexy, and all of a sudden the song began to take on meaning.

The lyrics of the first verse go like this:

You walked in
just like smoke
with a little come-on
come-on
come-on
in your walk
Come on
I've been waiting
Are you waiting
for my move?
Well, I’m making it.

My heart was ready to fly up my throat and out of my mouth. Within the space of like two seconds, all of these thoughts were flying in my head: Oh my God, surely he knows the lyrics to this song. Why would he put this song on my CD? I would never put a sexy song like this on a CD for a boy—he might think I wanted him. Did Jeremy think I would think that? Does he want me to think that? He has a girlfriend! Surely he isn’t trying to tell me something. What if he is trying to tell me something?

The rest of the song goes like this:

Talk to me
Baby, can you shake it?
If I can move it with you
will you let me take it?
I’ll be down on my knees
screaming Take me
Take me
Take me
Take me
I'm yours
I've never felt so
out of control
You don’t even know
what you're doing to me
Come on and do it to me
Don’t you stop
Come on, come on
Come on little rabbit
Show me where you got it
Cause I know you gotta have it

I’m telling you, even right now as I’m listening to the song and writing this story, I'm going wild. It is such a flirty, sexy song—and on Jeremy’s part, it was a blatant statement, putting it on a “mix tape” for me.

But, being ever so cautious, I tried to disregard the whole thing. I mean, he was still dating that girl. I will admit this, though—the “mean girl” side of me found it delicious that he gave me that song while still seeing her.

The CD was full of songs with double entendres. Another song had this funny lyric:

You are my personal miracle
I fell for all your charms
I worship you like an eastern goddess
The one with all the arms

Again, I’m thinking, Seriously, did he really just give me a CD with these songs on it? Surely he listened to them before he burned them! I couldn’t fathom why he would put such tender and suggestive songs on a CD for me, of all people.

Soon after, Spring Break began. I moved into a new house with my sister, and then left town with her and my mother to attend my brother’s boot camp graduation. We were gone for almost a week. When I got home, I decided to go to the coffee shop to unwind a bit before unpacking. Jeremy was there.

He began giving me a hard time about not having asked him to help me move. I said that I’d had enough help, and people hate helping people move, so we hadn’t asked more people to help than we actually needed. Jeremy seemed genuinely insulted that I hadn’t asked him for help.

Let me just say, I had moved about six times in the previous three years, and he had never before worried about helping me. Something was weird.

A few days later, a group of us went to a movie. Jeremy and I sat next to each other. At one point, I dropped my water bottle, and it began rolling down the sloped floor of the theater. Jeremy dove down before I could even react and retrieved it for me.

He stopped letting his best friend ride shotgun when I was along for the ride. Suddenly the front seat was for me.

One night, we were all playing drinking games at another friend’s apartment. He sat next to me on the sofa, and as he settled into the seat, his thigh touched mine. He didn’t move it.

He began offering me whatever he was consuming—ice (he’s a big ice chomper), water, food, whatever.

All of this started happening within the space of a week after I returned from the boot camp graduation. It was overwhelming and disorienting—suddenly, Jeremy was this chivalrous, considerate guy. I knew something was going on, but I was not allowing myself to think about it. Even though it was all I could think about.

After a few days of this, Jeremy and I and some friends were at the coffee shop again, and I called Summer to ask if I could borrow her laptop for a project that was due soon, since mine was out of commission. Jeremy overheard the conversation and began silently and enthusiastically mouthing to me that I could come over to his house and use his computer that night.

So I agreed. And for some reason, he offered to pick me up before and drop me off after. Again I agreed.

He drove me to his house and showed me to the computer room. I remember the keyboard was so well used that the letters were rubbed off the keys. He left me alone to do my work.

After a little while, he came back and offered me some ice cream. I got up to go get it from him, and he said, “Stay here. I’ll get it.”

I did not know what to do with all this attention from Jeremy. It was surreal.

I didn’t finish my work until close to midnight. I found him on the sofa with two beers, and he said, “Come sit with me.”

I can’t even explain what I was feeling. I was overcome with something; my heart felt inflated. But at the same time I was holding back—I was afraid to really believe what seemed to be happening.

We sat on his sofa and talked and drank our beer. Then he drove me home, and he put in the Afghan Whigs album with “66” on it. I had never listened to their music before, and if “66” was a flirty, sexy song, some of the others were downright pornographic—and I don’t mean dirty lyrics. The music itself sounded like sex. It was overwhelming. He had it playing quietly in the background while we chatted about the end of the semester and our upcoming graduation. Somehow the conversation wandered to the subject of bars and how much we both disliked this one particular place more than any of the others.

So we pull up in my driveway and Jeremy says, “Since we both hate bars, want to have a drink with me tomorrow night?”

It was like I pressed pause in that moment and stepped outside myself. So many thoughts swirled in my head. It just so happened to be April Fool’s Day, and my first thought was, Is this his idea of a prank? Then I thought, Surely he wouldn’t do that to me. Then I thought, If I say yes, we’re going to get married one day.

So I said yes. That was six years ago. And we will soon be celebrating the sixth anniversary of that first date, which happens to be two days before our fourth wedding anniversary. I still keep a scrap from that ugly flannel shirt I wore the first day I met him. It reminds me.

The rest of the story doesn’t even matter. It was over almost before it began, and it was a very happy ending. We didn’t even have to fall in love, because we already were.

29 Years Ago

29 years ago…

A little boy sits on the edge of my mother’s green tweed couch, his eyes exploring the length of the fishing rod in his hands. His fisted hand circles…in make-believe of reeling…pulling in an imaginary fish. Meanwhile, he tips an ear toward his father’s conversation, as fishing questions and answers are exchanged.

On the other side of that fishing conversation is my father – detailing the steps necessary to casting the line, controlling the slack, hooking a fish, and removing the fish from the hook.

The little boy’s eyes remain wide. His sideways attention focuses on the information his father gathers. His hands move with quiet wonderment – reeling, feeling, and dreaming with his new pole. Well, it’s new to him.

My father is handing over one of his fishing poles for the sake of a young boy who has the desire to fish. The boy’s father is learning, so that he can teach his son.

From the kitchen, I secretly peer around the living room wall at this six year old kid. I think, so different than the others I know. He’s quiet. He hangs on his father’s every word. He’s determined, in his own six-year-old way, to successfully reel in the big one. He must live in a home much like mine. He seems to be like me.

4 years later…

I find myself in a strange but warmly welcoming home, with its own smell of roasting meat and apple pie. It is the home of the boy who’d been at my house for a fishing pole. I only know this because my father refreshes my memory.

I haven’t seen the boy since he’s been to my house for the pole. Even forgot his face until I see it again. It’s different now. Older, less quiet. In his own home, he’s comfortable, more talkative. He eats dinner with gusto, like he belongs there.

Today, I am the quiet, listening one.

After dinner, I find myself in the seat of a pickup truck. Also in the truck are the boy, his sister, and his mother. As his mother bends the truck along country roads on the way back from the market, my comfort level builds and we chatter as children do…about hilarious happenings in our own neighborhoods. About our pets. About our favorite doughnut and ice cream flavors.

Then…the conversation shifts. The boy suddenly decides that I’m stupid. That my stories are stupid. That I’m really not worth his breath. The ride is completed in silence, save the droning of country music and his mother’s occasional attempt at heightening our spirits.

On my way back home, my mom says that how little boys act when they don’t know how to express themselves. I decide that his stories were pretty stupid, too. But can’t seem to forget them.

10 years later…

My work in the office of a construction company delivers me right into the middle of male conversations. Talk of women, beer, and pending jobs flow freely through my adjoining office, and I have little sense of my own space.

Additionally, that space is invaded by a man...daily. Pleasing to the eye, his presence detracts from my attention to my job – annoys me into noticing his advances, and prompts me agree that yes, I would be at the company Christmas party that night.

At the party, dozens of people separate me from the man. But those people might as well be transparent, because he’s all I see.

His wide shoulders are rounded with easiness, his speech flowing with comfort as he stands surrounded by his peers. His laughter is physical, with a bend at the waist and a slap on his knee. He wipes his hand across his forehead and down over his right eye, a gesture that seems to wipe away laughter in preparation for the next joke.

When he approaches me, it is with a lanky gate, like that of a youthful Marlboro Man. The noisy dining hall seems to fall silent.

His blond and brown curls peek around tiny, perfect ears and grasp the edges of smooth cheekbones. His brown eyes are dark, like the mud under a shade tree the day after rain. His mouth is small with plump rosy lips. His rounded chin juts northward, as if wanting to touch his manly, adequate nose. He is packaged in smooth, tanned skin, the color of the desert at sunset.

His height and build should belong to a professional athlete, but are rather evident of his manual labor. His lengthy arms lead to calloused, crooked digits topped with wide, flat fingernails. His knuckles are broad. His hands are rough, yet sweet.

3 years later…

That wishing fisher boy, that insult-delivering 10-year-old, that curly-haired, genuine, good hearted man is now my husband. We hadn’t recognized each other at work, or at the Christmas party, or even during our first official date.

It wasn’t until our parents pointed out that we had met, years before, that we finally connected the faces of today to the faces of yesterday.

I still peek at him in secret amazement. He still listens to my stories (but without the insults). He still invades my space, but only because I’ve extended a lifelong invitation for him to do so.

The biggest change? He’s no longer fishing. He’s caught the one he wants…and I’ve been reeled in…without a fight.

Love Story

Every woman makes mistakes.

Susannah Quinn glared at the door to the Sheriff's private office. Yep, every woman makes mistakes, but most women didn't have to put up with a constant reminder of their not so brilliant actions. And most women didn't have their mistake showing up at their office –flaunting tanned muscles and polluting the environment with clouds of testosterone and male arrogance.

Of course, mistake didn't quite describe what she'd done. No tiny lapse in judgment for old Susannah Quinn. When she decided to throw common sense out the window, she didn't mess around. Her fair skin flamed at the memory.

Temporary insanity was the only explanation for her behavior. If temporary insanity was a legal defense in criminal court, shouldn't she also be able to escape punishment for her lapse in judgment? Instead, she had her mistake aka D. E. Hogan show up, right on her doorstep. That was cruel and unusual punishment if she'd ever heard of any. That kind of redress might be banned by the U. S. Constitution, but, apparently, in the grand cosmic scheme of things, it was still being dished out. What was even worse was that Hogan turned out to be the new consultant for the Murphy's Cove Police Department down on the coast. To make matters worse, he just had to drop by the Sheriff's office every blasted day.

Susannah picked up her coffee cup, an oversized white mug emblazoned with red letters: Deputies do it in mirrored sunglasses! She drained the lukewarm black coffee. Muttering beneath her breath at the injustice of it all, she slammed the heavy ceramic mug down.

"What's wrong with you this morning?" asked Grace Collier.

"Nothing." Susannah didn't look over at the dispatcher for fear of encouraging her. She'd known Grace, her best friend's mom, all her life and loved the outspoken woman, but she wasn't interested in being on the receiving end of one of Grace's well-meaning lectures.

The ringing phone saved her. Grace punched a button. "Dispatch. This is Grace."

Susannah ignored the conversation, knowing it was Grace's friend Eunice who ran the Courthouse Cafe across the street. The woman called every morning so she and Grace could discuss yesterday's episode of their favorite soap opera. Soap news ranked at the top of the list of excitement here in Vance.

There was never any criminal activity in Alton County. Other than high school seniors climbing the spindly old water tower to spray paint Class of whatever on the rusty tank. Sometimes, a few years passed before a kid got an itch and a can of spray paint along with the desire to immortalize his graduation from the consolidated high school that served most of the small towns in the county. Nothing ever happened in this narrow slice of coastal prairie far west of Houston. That was the way her uncle Barney Drummond, the Sheriff of Alton County ever since Susannah could remember, liked it. Life here moved as fast as a crawling turtle.

Not much occurred even down in Murphy's Cove, the county's richest town. Besides, the resort town had its own overpaid police department to deal with the few year-round residents as well as the many rich divorcees who mobbed the coastal enclave for the rich and perpetually bored.

The only hotbed of activity was over on the four-lane highway that sliced through part of Alton County. That's where the real action was. Susannah sighed. If catching speeders could be considered action. Disgruntled at her lot in life, she tried to return her attention to the report she was typing. Unfortunately, that reminded her of her temporary insanity.

"Just Hogan," he'd said when her uncle the Sheriff had introduced him. Susannah had shaken his hand as if she'd never laid eyes on him before.

Until Hogan, she'd had only one secret in her life. It had caused her humiliation and anger. Now, she had something else to hide. Ironically, Hogan was the only person on earth who knew anything about her first painful secret. One thing about being hurt, humiliated, and angry. Those emotions sure helped squash the warm tinglies that assaulted certain parts of her anatomy every time Hogan walked through the door. If only those painful emotions had changed her body's instinctive reaction to him.

Another sigh escaped her. There was just something about Hogan. If she'd been a woman given to flights of fancy, she'd have called it love at first sight. But she didn't believe in love. Much less love at first sight. She knew enough about human sexuality to know love at first sight was nothing but pheromones. Calling it smell at first sight would be more accurate. It was just basic primitive sexual response.

Whatever you called it, Susannah would do anything to keep Hogan from learning how susceptible she was to him. Her delicate chin squared in resolve. She might not be able to run away now that he was in her county, but she could stand and fight. Or take cover behind cynicism and sarcasm. Whatever worked.

"Hey, hon. Eunice wants to know if you want her to save you some peach pie?"

"No, thanks. I'm not in the mood for anything else sweet. I had one of Aunt Opal's cinnamon rolls this morning."

Grace hung up the phone. "Maybe some more sugar would change your sour mood."

Though Susannah protested that she wasn't in a sour mood, Grace waved her words aside. "You're grumbling and muttering beneath your breath with every word you type. And what's with all those long-suffering sighs?"

"It's not fair that I have to do Hogan's reports while he swaggers around this office every day. Why doesn't he stay down in Murphy's Cove at the police department where he belongs?"

"My advice to you, missy, is to just get over it. Life isn't always fair."

Susannah clamped her mouth shut. She, better than anyone, knew how unfair life was. She'd learned that at the age of seven. Just in case she ever thought about forgetting that little lesson, what had happened when she'd turned sixteen would always remind her. Then there was last month. She just hadn't been able to leave it alone. What a fool she'd been.

Enough, damn it! Anger at the present was better than wallowing in the past. She shot a venomous look at the solid oak door separating the outer office from her uncle's inner sanctum. Every day Hogan visited her uncle. Susannah suspected he hung around just to irritate her. Just to look at her with his big blue eyes as if he were–.

"Damn!" Susannah struck the keys with so much force that her fingertips hurt. Thinking about him was always a mistake. Why wouldn't he stay away? "Double damn. I don't care if Hogan and Uncle Barney are best buds. Just let that man ask me to type one more report. Or. . . or . . . anything, and I will not be responsible for my actions."

Her fingers flew across the keys as she typed. The archaic word processing program, set to make an audible electronic beep when a word was misspelled, beeped like the back-up horn on a garbage truck. "That man isn't even connected to the Alton County Sheriff's Department. Unless you count his schmoozing with Uncle Barney."

Grace laughed at her as if she were a stand-up comic. With a careless wave, the woman dismissed Susannah's complaints and turned her attention to the romance novel that lay ever present on the dispatch desk.

Susannah picked up a crumpled paper napkin covered with blue ink squiggles. "Would you just look at this? It looks like a Rorschach test, not notes to be transcribed. I should've refused the first time Uncle Barney asked me to lend a hand. I'd like to lend Hogan a hand. Right across his smug face."

"Then why didn't you just say no?" Grace chuckled. "It's not like anybody twisted your arm and forced you to type Hogan's reports."

Grace was right, but Susannah's intuition had told her it might be wise to pick her battles with Hogan. "I was just trying to please my uncle." Her first day as a deputy for her uncle had been a disaster. She looked up and caught Grace's hard stare. "Okay, okay. We both know I was trying to make amends for my little faux pas."

"Little faux pas? That's a good one."

Susannah gritted her teeth as Grace laughed loudly.

"Hon. You're gonna grind the enamel off your teeth if you keep gettin' upset like that, and what's Hank gonna say about that?"

Susannah exhaled loudly and leaned back, determined to cool off. "Thank you, Grace, for that pearl of wisdom. I'm sure your husband, talented dentist that he is, can just make me a set of veneers if that happens."

When Grace laughed even louder, a reluctant smile tugged at Susannah's mouth. Grace had always been like a second mother to her. The only thing more ample than the woman's bountiful curves was her quirky sense of humor.

"Hon, just smile when Hogan comes in. Don't stiffen up like somebody put you in a body cast. And quit being as touchy as a wet cat. Try to be more agreeable."

"Being agreeable is what got me stuck transforming Hogan's chicken scratch into a report. If this report's for the Mayor of Murphy's Cove, why can't Mr. Hotshot Consultant get someone in that police department to type it?"

"Maybe he likes the way you glow like a red warning light when he hands you his notes."

"It's the principle involved. I'm a deputy, not a secretary."

When Grace just chuckled, Susannah frowned. "Well, I am. Or I would be if I were given half a chance. Stop laughing. This isn't funny."

"You're too danged serious. Lighten up. Be nice to Hogan. After all, he was pretty gracious about that little faux pas as you call it."

"He was not! He was obnoxious and overbearing. I'll tell you what his initials stand for. D is for demanding. E is for egotistical. To top it all off, he got Uncle Barney to tear up the ticket."

"Tickets," Grace corrected. "One for parking. The other was for a cracked tail light on the Suburban he was driving. At least that's what you said."

"Tickets then. And the tail light was cracked." Susannah hoped Grace attributed the crimson that stained her cheeks to anger. That day, meeting Hogan again, here in her town, had shaken her. After her uncle had introduced him, Hogan had possessed the nerve to ask her to lunch. Fear had flooded her. Fear that he thought they could have a fling. Fear that he didn't want a fling. Most of all, fear that she might not be able to keep her hands off him.

When she'd declined his offer, his eyes had mocked her. She'd pretended to be absorbed in the fax from the state police that she'd been reading.

In a voice so soft she'd thought perhaps she'd imagined it, he'd said, "Coward."

Alarmed that he'd nailed it so perfectly, she'd not dared to look up. Moments later, the door had opened and closed. He'd left without challenging her further.

Later, returning from lunch, she'd seen a black Suburban pull up and double park behind the cars filling the diagonal slots in front of the Sheriff's office. She honestly hadn't realized it was Hogan driving until she'd walked over to ask the driver to park in the lot across from the courthouse.

His blue eyes had gleamed with amusement. And with something else. Something that made her breath catch. Suddenly, the heat of the July day intensified. She knew what Hogan was thinking. She could read it in his gaze as clearly as she could feel it in the pulse points of her body. And that really scared her. If only he hadn't looked at her that way. If the corner of his mouth hadn't lifted in that little smile.

All it had taken to send panic chasing after the shiver of sexual awareness was his softly spoken question. "Don't you think we have something to talk about, Susy?"

The timbre of his voice and the heat in his gaze were like flame to dry tinder. Terrified at her body's response to everything about him, Susannah had backed away. She shook her head. "Don't call me Susy." She knew her quavering voice must have matched her "deer in the headlights" expression.

"No heart to heart talk today? No problem. I'll be here a few weeks. We've got time."

Susannah had felt all the blood drain from her face. She'd felt hot and cold all in the same moment. She could find no words to counter what she viewed as a threat. To be honest, there was a traitorous part of her that wished she could leap into his arms. Into his bed. But that would be disastrous.

All she'd had to do was make a joke about that night. Pretend that she was sophisticated. Unfortunately, she'd lost the ability to put together a coherent sentence, much less a smart, hip response to defuse the situation. So she'd taken refuge from his searching gaze and husky voice by whipping out her ticket book from her khaki shirt pocket. Gruffly she'd explained he was illegally parked. She'd only intended to write a warning. But Hogan had flirted. He'd winked and softly said, "Are you sure you don't want to go someplace private and talk about this, Deputy? Maybe we can work something out?"

That had just increased her panic. In a flash she saw a future she dreaded. He'd finish his job at Murphy's Cove and shake the dust of this small town. If she yielded to her emotions, he'd leave her with nothing but regret. She'd ripped the ticket out and handed it to him. He'd laughed.

The sound was the match to her fuse. She seared him with a glance and walked around the Suburban, making a pretense of inspecting the lights on the rear of the Burb just to buy her panicked brain more time. In her most official voice, she said, "Your right rear tail light is cracked."

"Well, gee whiz, Officer," he said in a parody of a Texas drawl. "You sure as shootin' better write that up. Can't let a lawless desperado like me get away with anything."

His mocking voice spurred her on. Retribution was a bitch with a ticket book in hand. Ripping the second ticket from the book, she handed it to him with a flourish. "As you wish."

"You must not have been in uniform longer than a nano second, or you'd know you don't give tickets to other law enforcement personnel. It's not professional."

His jeering words burned her. She'd wanted to smack him with her ticket book.

Fortunately, her uncle had arrived just then. It hadn't taken the Sheriff long to get the picture. He'd tsk tsked a bit, taken the tickets from Hogan, and stuffed them in his pants pocket. She'd known her uncle would tear the tickets up. And he had.

Battle lines were drawn that day. When Hogan dropped by, he alternated between flirting outrageously and treating her like a child. She countered with whatever put-down fit the occasion. She was just counting the days until he packed up and went back to wherever he'd come from. Until then, her best defense was a good offense.

Still, it hurt that her best friend's mother seemed to side with Hogan. "Grace, you don't think it's right for Hogan to act as if he's above the law, do you?"

"Oh, pish. You're too young to be such a stickler for rules. Just once I'd like to see you thumb your nose at responsibility."

Grace's outburst surprised Susannah. "You make me sound like a, well, like a stick in the mud. A pompous stick in the mud at that."

"Kids should be kids, but you skipped over that and went straight to adulthood. You're too serious to moralize like this."

Surprised, Susannah asked, "Do I really sound so self-righteous?"

"No, hon, no." Grace smiled and held her thumb and index finger close together. "Well, maybe just a teeny bit. You gotta quit judging people and how they should or shouldn't act. And quit assuming responsibility for other people. You've been doing that since you were seven. It's time to live your own life. Let others live theirs. Good golly. Have some fun. Stop being as unyielding as a clod of sun-baked mud."

Grace's assessment hurt. A lot. Susannah blinked to dispel the sudden moisture that threatened to turn into tears. "I was just saying that Hogan, as a hotshot consultant, should set an example for others."

"It's not as if he robbed a bank. All he did was double park."

"That's illegal. He was impeding traffic flow. He could have caused a traffic jam."

"Oh, come on. Not only is this the smallest dang county in Texas, it's also got the smallest towns. The closest thing to a traffic jam here in Vance was when Cici Rojas's pet sheep got loose and rammed the plate glass window at the bank."

Susannah smiled at the memory. She'd been fifteen when the massively overweight Ruffles had made his great escape.

"Now that assault sheep impeded traffic when everybody jumped out of their cars to try to catch him. Would you have written tickets for all of them or joined in the effort to catch Ruffles? I'm just saying that sometimes there might be mitigating circumstances to consider."

Resignation seeped through Susannah. "You should have been a preacher the way you keep at a person until she admits her sins. All right. Maybe he wasn't impeding traffic. I'll even admit, I should have let him off with a verbal warning."

"You've got a bad case of Rookie Cop. Ever hear about pride going before a fall?"

The phone rang again. Susannah decided it was better that Grace thought she was a gung ho rookie than to have her learn the truth. She listened to Grace's side of the conversation, hoping someone, somewhere, needed a deputy. But the call was from another of Grace's friends. No escape. The only thing more boring than this job was the small town she couldn't escape from either. And the only thing more boring than that was her personal life.

In college, she'd had friends. And dates. Though she'd never let any relationship slide into the perilous waters of romance. She sure didn't have to worry about that here. Eligible men were as scarce as unbroken sand dollars on a Gulf coast beach. Not that she cared, she silently affirmed. She'd decided long ago that all she wanted was a career. She'd be a good cop. If her uncle would give her a chance. She didn't want romance, but a social life would be nice.

Unfortunately, her high school friends had deserted Vance for the bright lights of Houston or San Antonio. She didn't blame them. She'd have done the same if it hadn't been for her mother. Luke Orland, her high school boyfriend, was now a cop down in Murphy's Cove, but they hadn't hooked up when she'd come home. To Luke, women were divided into two groups. Those good for sexy fun and games, and those he'd never get between the sheets. She still fell into the latter category.

Boring job. Boring town. Boring personal life. The triple threat was about to do her in.

Maybe it would be more bearable when Paula came home. Grace's daughter taught at Sam Houston State, the college they'd both attended. When the summer semester ended next week, she'd be home. That might save her sanity.

To Susannah's annoyance, after Grace finished the latest call, she picked up where she'd left off. "You've always been a rule follower, but in law enforcement, professional courtesy is as important as protecting and serving. You don't write the Mayor's pal a ticket. Especially when the Mayor runs the richest town in the county. And you sure don't ticket a cruiser from another police department." Then Grace spoiled the whole effect of her professional courtesy lecture by giggling like a school girl. "There's easier ways to get a stud muffin like Hogan to notice you."

Horrified, Susannah stared at Grace. Surely the woman couldn't know. "I did not write him a ticket so he'd notice me. Even if the governor declares D. E. Hogan heaven's gift to womankind, I wouldn't be interested. He's not even what I'd call handsome."

"Well, Susy Q," a male voice drawled. "I'm mortally wounded. Are you sure you don't find me appealing?"

Say I LOVE YOU

When U Were 15 Yrs Old, I Said I Love U...

U Blushed.. U Look Down And Smile..


When U Were 20 Yrs Old, I Said I Love U...
U Put Ur Head On My Shoulder And Hold My Hand...
Afraid That I Might Disappear...


When U Were 25 Yrs Old, I Said I Love U...
U Prepare Breakfast And Serve It In Front Of Me,

And Kiss My Forhead
N Said :"U Better Be Quick, Is's Gonna Be Late.."

When U Were 30 Yrs Old, I Said I Love U...
U Said: "If U Really Love Me, Please Come Back Early After Work.."

When U Were 40 Yrs Old, I Said I Love U...
U Were Cleaning The Dining Table And Said: "Ok Dear,
But It's Time For
U To Help Our Child With His/Her Revision.."



When U Were 50 Yrs Old, I Said I Love U..
U Were Knitting And U Laugh At Me...

When U Were 60 Yrs Old, I Said I Love U...
U Smile At Me..

When U Were 70 Yrs Old. I Said I Love U...
We Sitting On The Rocking Chair With Our Glasses On..
I'M Reading Your Love Letter That U Sent To Me 50 Yrs Ago..
With Our Hand Crossing Together..


When U Were 80 Yrs Old, U Said U Love Me!
I Didn't Say Anything But Cried...

That Day Must Be The Happiest Day Of My Life!
Because U Said U Love Me !!!

Please Appreciate Your Loved Ones.. Say "I Love You"
To Them When U Have The Chance Now !!!

Love Story

This story is a good lesson learnt and indeed a true philosophy now a
days. It's a fact in our current lives where people are USED and things
are LOVED.


While a man was polishing his new car, his 4 yr old son picked a stone &
scratched lines on the side of the car.

In anger, the man took the child's hand & hit it many times, not
realizing he was using an iron wrench.

At the hospital, the child lost all his fingers due to multiple
fractures.

When the child saw his father.... with painful eyes he asked 'Dad when
will my fingers grow back?'

The man was very hurt and speechless, he went back to car and kicked it a
lot of times.

Devastated by his own actions...... sitting in front of that car he
looked at the scratches ........... the child had written 'LOVE YOU DAD'.


The next day that man committed suicide....

Anger and Love have NO LIMIT - choose the latter to have a beautiful &
lovely life....

THINGS are meant to be USED and PEOPLE are to be LOVED,

..but the problem of today's world is that...

People are USED. & Things are LOVED!!!

Love Is In the Air

Remember your first crush? How about your first kiss or your first high school love? Even if you’re happily married right now, I’m sure the thought of that person brings a smile to your lips. Where are they now?

TLC’s upcoming special, "Amazing Love Stories" airing Sunday at 9/8c, tells the stories of two couples who were madly in love in their youth (as only the young can be) who reunite years later through chance, and after adversity. I loved the tales of these two couples, vastly different but really moving. Watching this special will make you believe in soul mates, that if it was mean to be… it will be. OK, I’ll get off my high hankie now and just tell you a little about each couple.

For high school sweethearts Bart and Brenda, it was love at first site -- in the cafeteria line. (Great vintage photos of them from the 70s remind us how bad the hair styles were.) But things changed for the young couple when Brenda found out she was pregnant at 17. Although Bart wanted to keep the baby, Brenda’s parents persuaded her to give it up for adoption. The heaviness of the situation was hard on them, causing them to break up in their senior year. Both moved on after high school, had families, but still thought about each other and the baby they gave up.

Flash forward 26 years post break up … Bart looks her up on a lark on a website that connects high school friends. Both were divorced at the time and …well I won’t ruin it for you because there’s a lot more to their story. But can you imagine hearing from your high school sweetheart after almost three decades?

The next couple’s tale is part love story and part adventure thriller. Santa Fe, NM natives Veree and Quinn also fall in love as teenagers, separate after high school, and connect again just after college. Their bond is immediate and intense. They become inseparable after running into each other again, until Quinn leaves for an adventure of a lifetime – climbing a 25,000-foot peak in the Himalayas.

At first the climb is going well for Quinn and he’s able to call Veree from base camp. But then an unexpected and fierce storm derailed the group for nine days. With no food or water and extreme temperatures, the thought of returning to Veree propelled Quinn back to base camp. He returns Santa Fe, but he’s a changed man. Again, there’s a lot more to this story so check it out this weekend for all the gooey details.

Have you reconnected with an old flame? Looked up an old boyfriend on Facebook or Classmates.com? (Not me. Never. Well, maybe one or two.) What was it like?

Also, think outside the chocolate box this Valentine's Day