Deal or No Deal?
8/4/06

I remember wrestling with the “how do I know she’s the one?” question before I proposed to Kristen back in the beginning of this summer. I cursed at the seventeen years of organized education I had received, and laughed at the fact that while I knew how to find the area of an Isosceles Triangle, I still couldn’t answer a simple yes or no question. I felt like I was on that stupid game show, blinded by the glare off of Howie Mandel’s bald head, while the entire world was watching…

Howie: Well Jared… She’s a beautiful girl who loves watching college basketball and ‘Friends’ reruns, who for some reason is attracted to you despite your obnoxious channel surfing and compulsive swearing at the Cubs. She’s yours for the taking as long as you commit your every waking moment with her for the rest of your life. Deal or no deal?
Jared: Um, I’d like to ask the audience.
Howie: Wrong show.
Jared: OK, then can I ask you?
Howie: No.
Jared: Damn you Isosceles Triangle!

It was a constant struggle. How does one know for sure that he or she has found “the one” with whom they are meant to spend eternity with?

Enter last weekend.

Last weekend was the sign that I had been looking for; the sign that everyone else (including Howie Mandel) could never show me before. Only the true “one” could have survived last weekend, and not only survived, but have the audacity to agree with me that it was one of the greatest weekends of all time.

Friday, Kristen began her weekend by flying into Chicago via Midway International Airport. Entering Chicago via Midway is kind of like entering a really fancy restaurant via the backdoor in the alley that is typically used for waste management. It’s not the most attractive option, but in the end, it still gets you to the same place.

From Midway it’s a short jaunt on the Chicago Transit System’s “L” to my humble abode. For those of you who have never experienced the “L” (short for “eLevated train”), I would liken the experience to having a friend push you through a grocery store parking lot, in one of those raggedy old shopping carts with the crazy wheel in front that has fallen off its axel, at approximately 65 mph. Only imagine the parking lot has potholes the size of Volkswagens and you’re in the cart with 25 complete strangers, most of who have not showered since “Miami Vice” was a TV show.

Foregoing personal safety and hygiene for Jared: 15 pts for Kristen.

Friday night we had dinner with my sister Katie, and her husband of 76 days, Tommy Bartlett. That’s correct, despite the tabloid rumors, TomKat actually tied the knot nearly three months ago, right here in Chicago. The Bartletts currently reside on the far west side, thus, having them down to the city for dinner was quite the treat. It’s not everyday that people from their neck of the woods (which I believe to be somewhere in Iowa) make the journey into “the city”.

(Sidebar #481516: Ever since I’ve been a city dweller, I’ve noticed the tone used in non-city dwellers when they reference “the city”. In a way, it’s as if they are referring to Sodom and Gomorrah, or some other entirely deplorable part of the world, like Madison, WI. And the hatred seems to be so deeply rooted, that it directly results in a physical inability to travel their, despite it being a mere twenty minutes away and easily accessible by various forms of public and/or private transportation. In the event that you do convince a suburbanite to pioneer the supposedly unstable terrain of the metropolis, they tend to actually pack rations, dress in layers and occasionally file their last will and testament before embarking. On behalf of my people, I would like to extend an olive branch to you all. We do not bite. We will not corrupt your children. That being said, we will run you over if you don’t friggin’ learn how to drive before you come down here!)

Ok… where was I? I think perhaps up to Saturday. Saturday, Kristen and I met my best man Francis and his girlfriend L.C. at a Chicago staple: Portillo’s. Portillo’s is THE PLACE for hot dogs. Chicago may never be known for greatness in baseball. We may never host the Olympics. We may always be the “second city”. However… we come in second to no one when it comes to two things: Pizza and Hot Dogs. No visit to Chicago is complete without a Portillo’s hot dog. It would be like visiting Paris and not seeing the Eiffel Tower, or visiting Miami and not seeing Dwyane Wade.

Now it has come to my attention that with the recent attention drawn to the obesity epidemic in the U.S., and with that guy named Atkins who apparently hates bread, that perhaps not everyone would get that excited about going out for hot dogs. But let the record show: Despite the serious health risks, Kristen accompanied me to lunch at Portillo’s.

Ignoring the surgeon general’s warning for Jared: 15 points for Kristen.

(let the record also show that L.C. posted as well for my main man Francis. Way to be a team player, L.C. You’re OK in my book.)

Sunday was the final test. If she were to pass Sunday, I’d at long last be at peace with myself and know that she truly was “the one.” The stage was set. The final game of a 4 game series at Wrigley Field against the arch-rival (no pun intended) St. Louis Cardinals. In case you are not familiar, a Cub fan hates few things in life as much as he hates the Cardinals. Perhaps the only things lower on the list are root canals and A.J. Pierzynski.

Luckily for us, the Cubs were on the verge of a 4 game sweep of the dirty birds from STL. 8 ½ innings later, we were a few outs away from breakin’ out the brooms and I looked over at Kristen. Standing and cheering with the rest of the 40,000 faithful at Wrigley. Scorecard in hand and empty Old Style paper cup at her feet. It was precisely at that point in time that I reached my moment of Zen. Not only had Kristen support me through my biggest weakness (my heart-wrenching-never-has-and-most-likely-never-will-bring-me-happiness-but-I’m-gonna-continue-to-let-them-let-me-down-cause-I’m-an-idiot love of the Chicago Cubs), but she embraced that weakness and now carries that cross with me. We are doomed to eternal misery together, and right then, as the Cubs uncharacteristically held on to win in the ninth, I realized that there is no other person on Wrigley’s Green Earth that I would rather suffer through 162 games of baseball with, every year for the rest of my life.

Subjecting yourself to eternal disappointment and accepting a life of pessimism for Jared: Priceless.

And so, today, (no thanks to Howie Mandell), I am able to scream from the mountain tops, Kristen’s “the one.” Do I take her to be my wife?

DEAL!