For Once in My Life.

"Where's my pitcher?"

It seems fitting that the first words to come out of my mouth upon meeting Berry White were beer-related.  Back then, I didn't realize how sentimental they would prove to be for us later in life.  At the time, craft beer was but a glint in our bottles of Amstel Light - the fanaticism wouldn't fully set in for a few more years.  But hey, I was promised a pitcher of cheap beer in return for dance floor support at one of his gigs (which I didn't attend but that's beside the point) and I was simply trying to collect.

Our paths first crossed in 2001 by way of a DC area electronic music forum.  At first, our interactions were sporadic but a few years down the road, we discovered that we went to the same parties, spent many of our Friday nights at Buzz (Studio 54 for the DC rave scene, if you will), hung out in overlapping social circles and shared a strong passion for music and spinning records.  One flirty Myspace comment led to another and eventually, we met in person.

Predictably, a syrupy, disgustingly sweet love affair ensued shortly thereafter.  I say predictably only because I knew long before "real life" introductions were made that I wanted to hang out with this guy.  Fantastic taste in music.  Cute hair.  And funny!  So damn funny.  Man, he could make me laugh.

Baltimore, 2007.  Sweaty warehouse rave.  Febreze would have been nice.

Our lives have changed a bit since we first started dating.  We've since hung up the headphones and broadened our musical horizons.  Late nights in DC have been replaced with Saturday afternoons in the Whole Foods beer section.  We've giddily sung along with friends at their wedding receptions.  Celebrated the births of their children (soon to include another special l'il lady who we'll be meeting in a few weeks.)

We've sipped a saison on Holbox sand.

Been stopped in mid "WTF are we going to do for breakfast?" conversation by an oncoming parade in downtown Montreal, which included Scott Niedermayer in one of those Grey Poupon cars.

Watched loved ones get tipsy on our wedding beer.

But at the end of the day, after all the beer has been consumed and the overnight bags have been unpacked and the playoff games are over, it's just me and that guy.  The guy I refer to as Berry White, a painfully clever combination of his last name and obvious Caucasianness.  Darkenetiks.  Mike.  My husband.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy 2nd Anniversary, roomie.  Thanks for making my life one big slumber party.

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