The day was Sunday, November 28. The week of Thanksgiving had passed by in a blur of cornbread dressing and pecan pie. No really, I'm pretty sure I ate 18 pounds of dressing. Dressing or stuffing? My mom's always done dressing. That's the stuff with the wet cornbread and celery and magic in it. Delicious, delicious magic. Ahem. Where was I? The Sunday after Thanksgiving when Mark had to head back to school out of town had rolled around. Mark and I had had good times together with family and friends during the week but the reality of him leaving town had set in and I was kind of sad. I couldn't help letting my mind go to the location where it entertains the fantasies of being Mark's wife and spending the holidays as a family, not just as boyfriend and girlfriend.
That Sunday, my friends, will not only be the Sunday when those fantasies became tangible, but it will also be The Sunday Mark Saw My Dad In His Whitey-Tighties.
Mark woke up that morning knowing that he would soon ask me to be his wife, but he had a mission to complete first. That mission? To ask my dad, Ricky, for permission to marry me. Early that Sunday, Mark headed over to my parents house, hoping to find Ricky and find the permission he sought.
He arrived at their house to find my mom and brother and sister already gone to church. Knowing that my dad prefers to individually, instead of collectively and with a congregation, worship God, Mark knocked on the door expecting a quick answer. A few minutes later, after no answer, Mark went down the mental checklist of other things (well, honestly the ONLY other thing) my dad worships (coffee) and headed to the Waffle House. After doing a quick walk-around and finding no Ricky, Mark thought, "well, maybe he's an IHOP man." Um, no. I don't think my dad even knows that IHOP's exist. He's committed. He's committed to the Awful Waffle.
No Rickey at IHOP.
Mark was getting desperate. He wanted to ask me that day but really wanted my dad's permission first. He decided his best bet was to head back to the house and wait for him there.
Back at my parents, Mark decided to knock on the door again, just in case. After several knocks, he finally hears a "Hello? Hello? Come on in." Mark turned the knob then heard, "Come on in, I'm in the den." Confident and happy, Mark headed towards the sound of my dad's voice.
He swung the door to the den open and saw a sight I'm sure he never imagined, in his whole life, that he would see. My dad was standing there in just his whitey-tighties, reaching for his jeans, saying, "Man, I'm glad you banged on the door because I fell asleep in the bathtub. Your knocks woke me up!"
Yeah, that really happened.
After that awkward encounter and with permission having been granted, Mark took me to Dowdell's Knob, a place in Pine Mountain, GA, where five years earlier, Mark had asked me to be his girlfriend. He got down on one knee, told me he could never imagine his life without me, and asked me to be his wife.
It was perfect. And awesome. And so sweet. And we're getting married this May!
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For the second, pretty much unrelated portion of this post, you'll have to email me at
peypeybaker[at]gmail[dot]com.
Please sign the consent form stating that you will never sue me for slander, libel, or defamation of character.
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You're pretty freaking intrigued now, aren't you?
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