How I Met My Husband


I originally typed in, “Ho I Met My Husband” and quite honestly I sometimes (I just spelled sumtimes, so gather what you will from this ongoing statement) think my typos are my brain’s way of communicating the truth of the matter.

I was working at a bank, that shall remain nameless, and I had just been promoted to New Accounts. This pretty much entailed me running over to the account floor from my teller station when the call came that they were too busy. My new promotion came with a tidy no-raise.

One fateful day in September of 1998, I received a call from, hmmm, let’s call her Carla (which ironically might be her actual name as I have long forgotten it but that sounds familiar), that she was swamped and needed someone to help her in New Accounts. I, being that someone.

Let’s get to what I was wearing, since that is the most important not-important part. I always tried to wear a pencil skirt to my work. The skirt was to be as tight and short as I could get away with. Of course. I was twenty one and wanted to exude some sort of professionalism. It just was not the sort of profession I probably thought I was showcasing. That day I was wearing my favorite lime green suit. It was actually citron and it had a permanent pen line right across the butt that I had never been able to get out. However, I refused to stop wearing it. I just assumed no one would notice.

I sat down at my least favorite desk. It was right in the middle of the floor and could be seen from all angles. To this day, I prefer to sit in corners, my back to a wall, so I can face out and see what is coming at me. My exposed back, having nothing whatsoever to do with a black line across it, made me feel frazzled and exposed. Plus, I felt a heavy burden in New Accounts. I, myself, did not bank with this particular bank. I was burdened with some of their practices. I felt by opening an account there for someone else, I was partaking in their sins. It made me feel bad.

I gathered my necessary items and nervously stood up. There was a line of people waiting. I went to the board where the first name was written and I called that person’s name. The first part of the name was a name that I had loved in high school. I once had a crush on a boy strictly because he had this name. It would be a name that I am glad I pronounced correctly, because it is one that I now say every day.

The young guy grinned at me when I called his name and followed me to the desk.

I remember asking him if I had pronounced his name right and him telling me that I had. It would be the first thing I would ever say to my husband.

He sat down across from me and we began the procedure of opening his account. I would later learn that two days before he came to that bank he had moved to that town. The day before he had sat in that chair, he had been in a car accident in front of the bank, the bank where I worked, and while he had waited for the police to come to the scene of the accident, he would decide that he would come back the next day and open an account at that bank. And I would later learn that when he came home from the bank the day I had opened his account, he would exclaim to his visiting relatives that THE HOTTEST GIRL (yes, I am using all caps here. No apologies) had just opened his account.

But sitting across from him in that chair I knew none of his past or his future.

I studied him as I asked him the routine questions.

He was wearing a faded green thermal henley shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His hair was brown and his eyes matched the green of his shirt. It would not surprise me when later in the year, I would stand in his green bedroom and learn that the color that he wore and decorated with was his favorite and always would be. He had perfectly full lips which would one day kiss me in such a manner that I would crave them forever. He had his shirt tucked in and his pants were rolled. I remember them as being terribly unfashionably pegged, but my husband reiterates time and again that they were just rolled. And so we will give him the memory credit here. His shoes were Vans. There was something rugged about the way he was dressed. An air about him that spoke of the outdoors. He was different from the typical California guys that I had grown up with. I now know that this is because he was from Oregon. An Oregon boy who would never quite get used to California and would always long for the land he once knew. But at this moment, the moment we are meeting him, he is simply dressed like a boy from Oregon. We do not yet know his heart. We do not yet know the struggles of his soul.

I remember holding my breath as I waited for the screen to tell me if we could proceed with the opening of the account. So many young people I had previously seen come in had been denied this step. It was always embarrassing for both me and that person.

He was approved.

I then asked him his occupation. His age. His marital status. His address. His previous address. His phone number. His debt. His income. All routine questions from the bank. Not routine questions that you get to ask a suitor.

Seriously girls, if only all women had access to the kind of information I had access to before I started dating my husband…

He answered all of the questions. I remember being impressed with his career because he was so young. I had never met anyone his age that was so confident, secure, and sure of themselves before. It was dissettling. So, of course, I assumed he was lying. It is sad that that seemed more logical to me than the idea that a young man could have his life so well organized and together. He wanted direct deposit and I signed him up for an account that would be free with direct deposit. But being new at New Accounts, I also remember blasely thinking, “We’ll see if this actually works.” It wouldn’t. A month later I would see him at a pool hall where he would approach me and tell me that he had been wrongly charged and get my phone number.

But at that moment, what I told him was, “let me know if you get charged and I will take care of it.” Of course, I didn’t mean it. He smirked at me and I remember feeling irritated and displaced that a guy with his pants pegged rolled would be so cocky. Especially one who was so obviously lying. It would only be later that I would learn, this boy never lies… Except about eating candy bars.

Then he did the unthinkable.

My heart sank when the cute, but cocky, twenty five year old guy across from me did not want the free checks. The free checks that were free and practical and a good financial choice. For some reason, I felt very strongly about those free checks.

What checks did he want?

He wanted… Looney Toons.


Looney Toons… Playing sports.

I do not remember the rest of the conversation. I remember ordering his checks and being unsure if the order went through. But I was not too concerned. At that point, the guy had lost some of his appeal with his check making decision.

He stood up to leave and he grinned at me. I remember my heart racing in my chest and being annoyed with myself because I could not understand why I was feeling this way towards a dishonest boy with pegged rolled jeans and looney toon checks.

I watched him walk out of the bank. I watched him walk through the parking lot. I watched him stand next to a beat up old van and I assumed wrongly that he had gotten into it. I assumed wrongly about a lot of things that day. I turned to call another customer. I thought about the boy with the green eyes for the remainder of the day.

Less than six months later that boy and I would share the same last name.

But that is a story for another day.

I will tell you, that boy turned into a man who only orders the free checks.

His marital status has changed.

He now does drive a beat up old van.

But his pants are no longer pegged.

The Day My Brain Broke

One thing I dreamed about when I went to Comic Con was seeing Patrick Rothfuss again. I had met him the previous year and it was thrilling (you can read about that encounter here). He is afterall, one of my favorite authors. To me authors are one million times sexier than actors or silly idols. They create worlds and scenarios. They create the characters that people view as sexy. That is so much sexier than someone merely acting out the part created for them. Give me the creator over the vessel any day. And I am enamored with smart men.

I have to insert here, that my husband is the smartest man I know. Thankfully, that sentence is true. He has won trivia contests and it was his cocky brain that first attracted me to him.

With that said, it is quite okay for me to now say I have a crush on Patrick Rothfuss’s brilliant brain.

So, when I saw that Patrick Rothfuss was doing signings on a day we were at Comic Con, I was excited.

The first problem was that I had broken out in a ginormous pimple right between my eyes the night before. I could have put a blindfold over my real eyes and told people my costume was a cyclops and they would have believed me.

The other problem was that it started at 5:30 and ended at 6:30. With kids in tow, that is generally much later than we stay at the convention. It is just too much for them. But I selfishly convinced my family to let me wait in line and they went back to the convention floor to explore the goods there.

My pimple and I got in line at 5:00. It was a multi-author signing panel. My husband wanted me to get Robin Hobb’s autograph in addition to me obtaining Patrick Rothfuss’s signature.


At 6:20, I was almost to the autograph table. I still had to purchase the two books I needed to have signed before I could get them autographed. I have so many items in my house I could have had him sign, but I had been unsure if my family obligations would allow this signing to happen. I was convinced before we had gotten to Comic Con that it would not work out. I was unprepared. But with good reason. As everyone’s own reasons always are.

Patrick Rothfuss came out from behind the long table (he was at the very end) and asked those of us still in line if any of us were waiting for him. There were some of us close to the front that were. But I told him I did not have my book yet for him to sign. He signed my convention pass instead. Then I asked him if he would still be there in time for me to purchase my book.

He was not sure.

This is when the manic set in.

It was not pretty.

Blame it on a long day at the convention.

Blame it on hormones.

Or my third eye.

Or fatigue.

But always, always blame it on my crazy.

I began to freak out.

When this happens, some part of my brain ceases to get oxygen. You might not believe me, but I have proof of this later. I start breathing harder. I start to sweat. My eyes bug out (just the two of them) and I begin to speak quickly.

At 6:30, he generously said he would wait for me to get the book I needed so he could sign it (I am sure he was waiting for other folks as well. At the time, though, it seemed as if all of the pressure was on me). He also stated he was late for two different bookings.

You would think that knowing he was going to autograph my book for me would calm me down. Make me happy. Instead it further closed the crank to the sanity valve in my head as I stressed about how quickly I could get the book purchased. My common sense drowned. And my absurdity floated to the surface in the clogged pool of thoughts that swirled in my head. How was I going to get my husband’s book signed by the author in the middle of the table if Patrick Rothfuss was waiting for me at the end? How much time did I have?

He was late!

And this was not a cute little white rabbit with a broken stop watch.

This was an important author.

And above all, I was a fan that did not want to disappoint him.

I will warn you, the story goes down as quickly as my sanity from this point forth.

I bought the two books.

I waited in line. I saw that he was signing other people’s items so I thought I had time to get the book signed by another author that had contributed to the book. That author opened the book and said to me, “It’s all ready signed!”

My dam containing Irrational Behavior cracked under the pressure of my congested emotions.

Patrick Rothfuss was waiting for me to purchase a book so he could sign a book that was all ready signed by him! I wanted to throw up. I had simply taken the book that the people in charge of the signing had handed me. Still, I felt like a fool. I did not know what to do. There were people behind me in line waiting to purchase books. Time was a wasting. So, I asked the author to please just personalize it to me. He spelled my name with a “y” at the end. At this point it seemed fitting. “Y Jenni Y?”

Patrick Rothfuss looked up. I was the jerk getting other autographs as he waited for me. I flew into a frenzy that only I know how to do.

I asked the sweet girl who was part of the sweetest couple from Idaho behind me if she could get my book my husband wanted signed for me signed by that author so I could get Patrick Rothfuss to autograph the all-ready-autographed-book.

She looked confused and shocked that I would make that request, but she did it. Because she was nicer than me. And her darn sanity valve had not sealed itself shut.

I made my way to Patrick Rothfuss. I nervously clutched the book in my hands. I could not believe I was going to ask him to sign a book he had all ready signed when he was being so sweet and generous with his time.

But I did.

He did not say anything about it all ready being signed. Another person nicer than me. I asked him to personalize it to my husband and myself.

And he did.

I asked if he would take a picture with me.

He said, “If you can find someone and teach them how to use your camera on your phone.”

I replied like a maniac idiot, “I carried a watermelon!”

Not really. What I actually muttered was, “I don’t even know how to use my phone!”

This is untrue. Just a few hours earlier I had taught my son how to use it, but at that moment all knowledge of my device was gone.

My device that was pink.

And had…



This did not make me appear smarter, despite the esteem usually associated with those two words.

Behind me was that poor man who was part of the poor couple who had poorly chosen to get behind me in line. Earlier, before my meltdown, I had asked him if he would take my picture with Patrick Rothfuss when we were conversing about Comic Con and life, so this was not out of the blue.

But when I went to turn my camera on, my shaking hands could not figure out how to turn it from video to camera.

I do not even know why it was set to video in the first place.

Blame Jenn-y.


I took this video (And no, I was not purposefully aiming for his crotch. I am not that stealthy weird).


And this video as I fumbled with the buttons.

At this point you might have noticed that clicking those buttons is not working out for you. That is because it is just a picture of the video. Do you think the girl who could not figure out how to take a picture could figure out how to import a video onto this post?

You are right.


Finally I swiped it the right way and got it to the camera setting. I handed the phone to the kind young man and got behind Patrick Rothfuss. I did not want to appear too big in the photo so I kind of slouched down.

Which is why Patrick Rothfuss looks regal and I look like a weird lurking hobbit behind him.

You might assume that this would be the end of the story, but you would be wrong. Just then the nice wife of the kind man walked up to me to hand me my book that she had gotten autographed for my husband (what a strange train). My fumbling fingers dropped the book. My change from my purchases (which I am now convinced totaled 98 cents in pennies. Not 99 cents that would just be unrealistic) that I had been furiously clutching in my sweaty palms spilled everywhere.

I dropped to the floor and began to crawl around as I gathered it up. Stranger’s crotches were nestled next to my head as I clawed at the ground. Thankfully my third eye kept them at bay. I could not find my dignity. I do not know where it fell.

Maybe that valve was shut off long ago.

Either way, I slunk away from that autograph table feeling like the world’s biggest fool.


Now, did you notice the worst thing in those pictures? The thing that makes this story ironic? The thing that once my pipes loosened in my head again and I could indeed breathe, I noticed right away.

You all ready saw it didn’t you?

Yep. His shirt. Patrick Rothfuss’s shirt.

It says, “Think. It’s not illegal yet.”

I should have not been arrested.

My husband howled with laughter when he heard the story and saw that shirt.

When I remorsefully retold my story to my son, he patted my back.

He decided to impart some of his wisdom to make me feel better. I am not so sure it worked.

“Don’t be sad, Mom,” he said. “It’s not your fault. It’s your brain’s.”

Now that should be on a t-shirt.

Meeting Patrick Rothfuss


It is no secret that I am slightly in love (in a noncreepy-completely-understanding-I am-a-happily-married-woman-and-he-is-madly-in-love-with-his-pregnant-girlfriend kind of way. Call it an innocent crush, if you will.) with Patrick Rothfuss. Give me a man with a brilliant mind, and my knees weaken instantly. He is the author of my favorite book, “Name of the Wind.” Simply put, he is a genius.

At every Con we go to, I always hope to see him. I did once (here is the embarrassing recap), but I never had a chance to speak to him.

Until recently.

After missing out on an opportunity to see him at Comic Con, I learned he would be doing an impromptu signing at Mysterious Galaxy, a wonderful bookstore in San Diego that specifically sells Science Fiction and Fantasy books. The people that work there are very personable. And often times, you can snag a book here that has been signed by the author.

The signing was at seven o’clock at night, just as the store closed. We left the kids and hurried down there. It was the perfect night for the telling of stories, blossoming friendships, and french fries under the moon.


The signing/reading was so interesting. If you are a fan of Patrick Rothfuss’ novels, and you have never been to one of his signings, I highly suggest you go. I am not going to write about what he spoke of, because he asked us not to. But it was really cool. He read a couple of pieces and answered a few questions.

However, towards the end of the hour, I got a rush of claustrophobia and heat. I suddenly felt like I was going to throw up all over the book cases. I was terrified. I had to quickly drop to the floor and hug my knees. So, I missed watching him read his stories. But I saved the books from my onslaught of sickness. And I still got to hear the tale, at least.

Then the wait began. Because it was an impromptu signing, numbers were not given out like they usually are. Which means, even though we got there an hour early, the people at the back of the store, who came later, got a lower number than us for the signing.


No biggie. We went to McDonald’s next door and got large unsweetened iced teas and a large fry to share. We sat outside and admired the giant moon that loomed overhead. It was actually quite romantic.

Then it was a quick jump back into line.

While waiting in line, I overheard two girls talking in front of me. They both had huge grins on their faces. They were each speaking of how they had to get up for work early the next day, but that this signing was worth losing sleep over.

I assumed they were best friends.

Both girls were pretty in their own way. One girl was waif-like, with dark wavy hair trailing to the end of her back. A bright smile. I would call her eager. That was her spirit. Eager. Friendly.

The other girl was slightly more reserved. Short brown hair. Round, happy face. She was quieter. Allowing for her tattoos and many piercings to tell her story for her. Her form spoke of someone who had been hurt before. More cautious. Cautiously friendly.

The eager girl turned to the cautious girl and said, “I know this might sound crazy. But would you like to be my friend?”

It was such a sweet, beautiful moment.

It is not a moment that you expect to see as an adult. Not one you ever come across in front of you. And not one that you get to witness and be a part of.

The other girl smiled. Her armor cracking just a little. “Sure.” She replied.

The eager girl was ecstatic. “Great. I just moved here from New York. I do not know anybody. I will give you my number.”

They exchanged slips of paper.

From an outsider looking in, I expect them to have a long friendship. Their souls just seemed to click. The exchange moved me. It proved once again how very good people can be.

They left and then it was our turn to meet Patrick Rothfuss.

I was not even that nervous. I guess once you yell at someone across the street, and make a complete fool of yourself, there is not really much more you can do.

He was very kind. I told him that he once ran away from me.

He replied, “doubtful.”

And then we laughed.

His aura was big. Does that even make sense? He is a big man, but his essence was also big. Most people’s energies feel small inside themselves. At the very most, you can feel their energy barely caressing their skin. I have a friend whose energy is like that. She has so much of it, it escapes through her pores and onto other people. She gladly gives her energy away. It always comes back to her. I guess you could call her energy, “boomerang energy.” She seems to have an unending supply of kindness. If I close my eyes and picture this friend, I can see pink ripples of light swaying along her skin. Dancing with her soul.

Some people have built such a wall around their soul, that you cannot see or feel anything beneath their surface. This was the case when I met a different celebrity. His energy felt like cardboard. George R. R. Martin’s energy felt like a tight bright ball of light inside of himself. As though, he had mastered molding it into the shape that he had wanted. He would let a tendril of it float out to smile or form a warm word. But Patrick Rothfuss’ energy felt like it was so large, it was crouching. As though it was waiting to unfurl itself. Almost like a dragon bending itself in two. I have never felt another energy like it.

And now that we have confirmed I am more than slightly crazy, we will continue…

I tried to speak to him about Battlestar Galactica, because he had brought it up during the reading. I wanted his take on the ending. But he quickly told me he did not want to speak about it. He is only halfway through the t.v. series.

I took a photograph with him. My husband asked me, “how do you want to pose?”

And I replied, “let’s just be normal.”



This is Patrick Rothfuss being “normal.” The pictures are blurry because my husband could not stop giggling. He later apologized to me for the blurry pictures, but I told him, “I love the blurry pictures more, because I remember that moment with you in front of me giggling. It makes the picture more special.”


And I got one with us hugging. I love this one. Patrick Rothfuss gives the best hugs. He is known for it. My husband said, “oh, you know you want a hug.” And I did. Sorry I am blocking half of his face. I later took a picture of my husband and him and I told my husband to hug him. He wouldn’t. And it was actually quite embarrassing on recollection. Sorry husband! Sorry Patrick Rothfuss! Sometimes I get out of control.

We got three of our books signed by him. It was surreal. And my whole Comic Con experience finally felt complete.

I recently finished reading, “The Name of the Wind” for the third time. I cannot get over his intelligence. The beauty of his thoughts. Each sentence is poetry. I am in love…with the words…from the mind of a very kind and brilliant man.

During the reading, he mentioned that he hoped he said one thing that we disagreed with him on that night. It was a lesson in opening yourself up to other people and that although their views may be different than our own, we should broaden our friendship horizon. I am not doing his thoughts justice.

I just wanted to say, I did.

I did disagree with not one, but two things he said that night…

And I still love him.

Despite. In spite of. Because.

P.S. Right now Patrick Rothfuss is raising money for his amazing charity Worldbuilders. Worldbuilders raises money for the Heifer International Foundation. (You can read more about it here). If you have not heard of Heifer International Foundation it is a beautiful charity that raises donations to buy people in impoverished countries tools that will increase their way of life. Not just food for a day. But a cow that will provide milk. Or chickens that provide eggs. It is a wonderful organization. Last year our book club got together and purchased a goat. And every year my husband and I contribute to Worldbuilders. We think it’s important. Just another reason Patrick Rothfuss is an incredible man. For a limited time, for each $10 contribution you make you are entered into a lottery to win books and fun things he has collected. There is actually quite a bit of loot to be won. We have never “won” a book, but we consider it winning just to help their organization out. : )

Comic Con 2013 Part III


This is Part III of my three part account of Comic Con. If you would like, you can view:

Part I

Part II

And what I wore

This is a recap of my favorite thing that happened at Comic Con:

My main goals at Comic Con are always to meet the following authors: George R. R. Martin, Patrick Rothfuss, and Brandon Sanderson.

Last year, I had a moment with Patrick Rothfuss (the author of my favorite book, “Name of the Wind”). I saw him walking down the street. Alone. I was with my children. It was either leave my children and chase him down. Or stay stationary and be a good mother.

This is what I did:

I stood up (we were sitting on a bench). I screamed, “YOU!”

He looked up startled. I would make a terrible hunter.

“YOU’RE AWESOME!” I screamed like a lunatic. My kids had no idea what the heck was happening. My daughter was mortified. Patrick Rothfuss quickened his pace. And he was gone.

I had scared away my prey. Darn!

But I know exactly what he looks like now. I will not be foiled again. Stares off into the distance creepily here.


This year, I got to accomplish another one of those goals. It was amazing.


On Thursday, my husband and I were walking by a booth, when he leaned over to whisper to me, “Hey. It’s George R. R. Martin.”

My head fell off.

No, it didn’t. But it felt like it might float away. I was giddy.

He is my favorite author. I think he is the most brilliant man alive. His books are a series of fantasy novels,” A Song Of Ice And Fire.” The first book is “Game Of Thrones.” It has also been adapted into an HBO series. My husband and I have loved his books for more than a decade. I was shaking with excitement. I ran to the back of the line, where I was met by security. I was told I needed to have a ticket for the signing.

My heart sank. He was so close.

I walked away. Sad. But I was still excited we got to see him.

Thirty minutes later, we were leaving. I asked my husband if we could walk by that aisle one more time. I just really wanted to see him again.

We got there.

My husband left me to look at something. The “bouncer” was gone. George R.R. Martin was still there. There was a small line. I quickly got in it.

I am a rebel.

Apparently not a good one. My kids informed me that I stood there rubbing my hands together and saying, “He, He, He, He.”

Okay, a crazy rebel.


And then he was in front of me. I started shaking.

I said, “I just love you.”

He politely said, “Really? Well, thank you.” He smiled. He was very kind.

I purchased a calendar that he had signed. My daughter took our picture. I might have touched him like a crazy person. I do not know. My daughter says I did. It was a quick blur. I thanked him.

And I left. My poor husband missed the whole thing. And he likes George R.R. Martin just as much as I do.

This was my highlight of Comic Con. Maybe my whole year.

My soul is full of happiness.

Have you met someone you idolize? How did it turn out? (In some future posts in the coming weeks or months, I will write about meeting Sean Astin and finally stalking, tracking, hunting down, meeting Patrick Rothfuss.)