Love Story

How did this happen? How did I come to be Mrs. Bunker? Was I drunk for an extra long time? Did the tick-tock of the biological clock drive me to madness and completely scramble my normally perspicacious judgment?
This might be a long one, so set yerself on down.

Oppisites should leave each other alone:
We are an odd pair, Archie Bunker and I. Some things just don't go together that well; for example: Jesse Helms & Snoop Dog. Channel Suits & Tractor Pulls. Lesbo porn & Mother Theresa. Rush Limbaugh and Ariana Huffington. NASCAR and Nancy Pelosi. Lafite Bordeaux and Oscar Mayer. Sandpaper and Ass. Me & Archie Bunker. So then, why? how?

First Impressions:
I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, that much is true.
Archie's good friend Paulie (six times divorced Paulie, shit ya naught) frequented said establishment. Paulie decided that I would be the woman for Archie Bunker. Paulie thought I would be better for his buddy than the beauty school drop-out, leopard-pattern-wearing, maybe a model but possibly a high-end escort, ex-girlfriend(s) who kept stealing all his money. I was fresh off the turnip truck, lost in the big city and yes, I did have tape holding my shoes together. I was not starving, tuna fish and ramen noodles are really quite filling. He did not rescue me from poverty as he likes to boast, I was a student. I did see potential for a free meal, though more importantly, he had a car and could take me on the long anticipated trip to Target so I could get a new filing cabinet. That's what was on my mind.

First date:
So we went on a date. It was a disaster. I thought that since I'd suffered through that, that I should at least get my trip to Target. Somehow we ended up dating, I'm just not good at telling people to shove off. I only saw him about once a week during my library breaks and he didn't seem that bad; no bodies in his trunk anyway. Then I found out that he was planning to propose, and I broke up with him because I didn't want to marry someone who couldn't conjugate verbs in his native language. It was over.

Loser's Parade:
Dating after that was not promising. First was Mark, the lawyer. He seemed respectable at first. He had his own practice and was opening a business which he told me was a restaurant/nightclub. Turns out, he was a sleazy ambulance chaser that hung out in emergency rooms and his "business venture" was a bare nekid ladies dancing on poles sort of thing. Really. He was honestly interviewing strippers while we were dating.
Next was John, the stockbroker who was really a very nice guy, right up 'til I found out about his leetle cocaine habit; his dirty whore of a nose kinda threw that one into the shitter.
Then I had a couple of dates with some guy from my running group which were so dull that I truly cannot recall his name. I do remember his marathon time (3:21), which was almost four minutes faster than mine causing me to be subjected to much well intentioned but really boring advice.

Reunited:
So then I called him back. I did it. I picked up the phone, called Archie Bunker and initiated the reunion. Then I married him. Now I don't like him, not really even a little. But I'm pretty sure that I am not unique; I believe that I am statistically normal. This is what it takes to get the prize (Miss H. and The Boy). That's the story. So Danielle Steele, FUCK YOU.