Hot One In Classified

Cupid With A Hook

I think for many people, it is hard to find your fit in this world. Like many writers, I worked other jobs to pay the bills until the dream of making a living as a writer came true.

In my early twenties, I got one step closer and was hired by a small, suburban newspaper in LaGrange, Illinois. My job was in the Classified Department. The Kill Sheet and proofreading were my primary responsibilities. Every week I figured out which classified ads ran again and for how many more times, and which ones got pulled.

From there, the Kill Sheet went to the Layout Department, where the ads were removed or left to appear in the next edition. On occasion, I got to use my creative energy to design large display ads for the Classified Section. It was a fun job, except for the ongoing stress of meeting deadlines.

My Boss The Hook

One unhurried spring day, my boss stepped into my office for a friendly visit. He nicknamed himself “The Hook” because he had lost his left arm in an unexpected life-changing event. His birth name was Jerry. He never shared the details about how he lost his arm, and I never had the courage to ask him what happened. Despite his daily challenges,

The Hook was a great boss with a quick sense of humor, uniquely Midwestern. To live happily in the Chicagoland area, you need to see the humor in life to survive the brutal winters, tornadoes, all those people and traffic, the Polish and other ethnic jokes, and the injustice of crime and poverty followed by the anger and pain it creates in communities. I admired him for the way he presented himself. The impression I got from my boss was that his prosthesis helped him to live as independently as possible, but it did not define who he was as a person.

Jerry and I spent about forty-five minutes chit-chatting about work issues and our co-workers. I recall making an innocent comment to him. I simply said, “You know, Pete Fuller seems like a nice guy.” That’s it. Nothing more. Whenever I saw Pete, he had a big smile going on. His prankster looks, reddish, flyaway hair and a scruffy beard to match caught my attention. Being somewhat shy back then, I wondered if we would ever officially meet.

Surprise!

Pete worked in the Circulation Department and was responsible for distributing newspapers in many locations throughout LaGrange and the surrounding communities. He spent little time in the Classified Office and our paths rarely crossed. Shortly after my statement about Pete, Jerry left, and our spontaneous visit ended.

The next day, Pete appeared at my office door and with a huge grin said, “The Hook told me I had a hot one in Classified.” We both burst out laughing. Then Pete asked if I would be interested in going out to dinner with him. I said “yes,” and just like that we began dating. One simple comment is innocently relayed to one person, and two lives are instantly connected.

The Courtship Begins

It seems that new relationships either keep you on your path to joyful living or become detours for those lost in an emotional wilderness of unhealthy decisions.

Pete and I spent time getting to know each other by going to movies, dining out alone or with friends, bowling, camping adventures, shopping to satisfy my fetish for jeans and corduroy pants, and hanging out with Pete’s family and friends.

One of my favorite dates was the night Pete invited me over for a home-cooked meal. His parents were gone for the weekend, and he had a temporary bachelor pad. He prepared duck with mashed potatoes, broccoli smothered in cheddar cheese sauce, and chocolate pie with whipped cream, entirely from scratch! I was so impressed-a man who loves to cook. I thought to myself that this could be a match.

Pete came into my life after I had been stalked for almost four years as I wrote about in My First Love Stalked Me and after my dad’s unexpected death at 57 from a massive heart attack. It had been years since I felt peaceful and safe. It felt good to be able to talk to my boyfriend about the lingering hurts of my past. At one point, my confessions of great sadness brought tears to flow from his kind, blue eyes. That was the first time I was with a man who showed any depth of emotion during a date. It was the moment we both realized how fortunate we were to have found each other. Thanks to Cupid With A Hook!

I had longed to meet a man I could trust who was fun to hang out with. Pete had a charming, untroubled way about him. He was a free spirit, adventurous, and didn’t worry about what other people thought of him.

I imagined forever with my jovial Sagittarian. Several months after we started dating, the talk happened. We shared our expectations about faith and having children. Pete had been an Altar Boy and raised in the Episcopalian faith; I had been raised in the Baptist faith. At that time in our lives, neither of us attended church regularly. I was developing my own spiritual beliefs and spent my free time reading books about the unexplained and the great unknown. He told me he loved me but wanted to be sure I understood that he never wanted children. I said I was okay with not having children and wanted to stay focused on my career path to being a published author.

Those two essential matters being out in the open and settled, we agreed it was time for the next step in our relationship.

The Engagement

What an interesting word “engagement” is. It can go either way and be used as meaning commitment, arrangement, or rendezvous. Or, it can mean confrontation, combat, and hostilities.

We were excited to share the news. Pete’s mom (Noma) was still up when we arrived. When Pete told her we just got engaged, her response was, “What’s the matter, Son? Aren’t you happy with your home life?” Then she continued her commentary by telling Pete that she expected us to spend every Sunday with The Fullers. I guess you can figure out which definition will describe my developing relationship with my future in-laws.

Getting engaged immediately coupled my life with a brand new clan. It’s blending time again.

Pete also grew up in a blended family. He was the youngest of five. Sunday was the only day we had together because of our work schedules, and I also attended college classes. Being ordered to spend it with Pete’s parents, three sisters and their families, and Pete’s brother and girlfriend gave me that “what have I gotten myself into” twinge. But the good thing was that Noma was an excellent meat and potatoes kind of cook. I loved her pot roasts, tender and seasoned to perfection, cheddar cheese and onion creations, and seven-layer salads. It didn’t take long for me to figure out who taught Pete to cook.

Pete referred to his dad as “Frog.” His father got the nickname for striking a comical pose whenever he had too much to drink. He would sit with his arms and legs in the folded position frogs take when floating on top of a lily pad. His lily pad was a comfortable, black leather recliner. His “croak” would be loud belches, the gastric by-product of Beer Sunday. Every dinner, he would be quick with a Fullerism: “When I die, be sure you sprinkle my remains on the mashed potatoes at every family gathering.” Another favorite of his was, “Loud laughter proclaimeth a vacant mind.” Hard to forget philosophy like that.

The more time we spent together, the more I became concerned about Pete’s drinking, not only for health reasons but because of my dad’s alcoholism. Our dates together were not as much fun anymore. Frequently, he got so drunk that the evening became me trying to pick him up after falling down from the family tradition.

One revealing evening, my fiance proudly admitted that his parents started buying beer for him when he was fifteen. Pete explained that his parents thought it was better for him to drink at home than to drink and drive (the logic of parents who model drinking as a way to relax and have fun). As I wrote about in High Functioning Alcoholism and The Dad I Loved But Never Understood, my father was a closeted alcoholic. My fear was that our dream for a simple, loving, fun, peaceful life together was being built on a foundation of crumpling aluminum beer cans and unspeakable truths. Perhaps, it was more of a premonition.

Christmas With The Fullers

My rescue relationship hotline was on speed dial. Then there was my first Christmas dinner with the Fullers. I believe this recollection will spotlight the emotional numbness alcohol brought to Pete’s family and beyond.

The clan of Fullers was seated around Frog and Noma’s huge and worn mahogany dinner table on Christmas Day. Everyone was busy gulping down the traditional feast of turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, dressing, cranberry sauce, and rolls with butter. Pete’s dad broke the holiday silence by blurting out, “Well, Marilyn, are you going to get on the pill when you and Peter get married? You know, I named him after my dick. And before I could respond, Frog kept going with: “I think you should, because maybe then your boobs would get bigger.”

Not one person at the table looked up, commented, or stopped eating except me. I witnessed the invisible disease that alcohol creates-stunted emotional growth at the age a person begins drinking. Miraculously, I somehow controlled my shock and discomfort to survive Christmas dinner. Shortly after everyone left the table to play cribbage, hearts, and spades fueled by more adult beverages, I asked Pete to drive me home. He did not have a clue why I wanted to leave, and that concerned me more than his father’s inappropriate remarks. During the silent ride back to my place, I wondered if my life with Pete would become “like father, like son.”

The Breakup

I promised myself I would never be an alcoholic like my dad.

Alcohol unchecked, however, has its own agenda. Was I subconsciously choosing a guy just like my dad? Can people driven to drink be happy with someone who does not want to be their lifelong drinking buddy?

Something deep in my gut troubled me. It was not fun to watch Pete and his family consume cases of beer and booze every Sunday and on holidays. The language was often beyond my comfort zone. The weekly experience resurrected too much trauma from my childhood.

I wished my fiance would enjoy my company as much as he enjoyed downing cans of beer. I hoped he would be truthful about the problems with his mom and dad not liking me. I thought I wanted to be with him, but I could not ignore how confused I felt. I prayed Pete would take better care of his health so he didn’t die a young man like my father. Shortly after Christmas dinner with his people, I broke our engagement. Pete took the split hard.

All The Cards On The Table

Being an observer, I realized that memory and perception are what people are made of. Memories are surviving entities. Perception is our inner program (behavior DNA) and determines how we process words, feelings, conflict, success, and self-worth.

Pete finally shared with me that his mom told him I didn’t accept him for how he was and that I only wanted a “pseudo image” of him. Noma wrote a hurtful letter to Pete alleging that I had brainwashed him into thinking his whole family was no good. He showed me the letter. She commented in her letter that she thought we should both see a psychiatrist and attached a clipping to the letter. It read: “I think the result of brainwashing, or rather brain impressing is: to convert someone, you don’t clean the brain out. You put something in it. The brainwasher impresses his victims with his own superior fanaticism and honesty.” Because I encouraged Pete to begin taking better care of his health made me a brainwasher in Noma’s perception.

According to numerous websites about alcohol addiction and rehab, beer drinkers are just as prone to alcohol dependence as those who drink other alcoholic beverages. Beer has been thought to be less of an intoxicant, or less habit-forming than other kinds of alcohol. For many people, however, it is easier to depend on beer. They just drink more of it. The low alcohol content of beer is irrelevant.

While we were split up, Pete pursued the suggestion I made months earlier and went for a physical. The doctor told him his liver looked like hell and told him to stop drinking. Within a month, he lost twenty-five pounds by giving up beer. He also looked fit for his muscular frame hidden beneath his cumbersome beer belly. He made the choice to put his physical and mental health first. Noma, however, perceived her son beginning to change his unhealthy habits as threatening. Since he was the youngest, I think his mom also thought Pete would forever live with them and take care of them in their golden years.

In my perception, Pete’s mom did not accept that her negative words and actions about me, the woman her son loved, caused the problem between them. I felt strongly that Pete’s mom did not want to let go of her youngest and was more interested in controlling Pete’s decisions instead of gaining a daughter-in-law. Why would I think otherwise, given the circumstances?

Reunited

After he had worked on his medical issues and had time to think about what he wanted, he called me and filled me in on his progress. Finding out that Pete was a man of his word and wanted a life with me, we renewed our engagement. The pull to be together was more powerful than the push to remain apart.

Once we got back together, Noma apologized and said she didn’t know what got into her that caused her to say such mean things. Our time together began to improve. I tried my best to fit in and remember that these were Pete’s people, Frogs and all.

We spent some Sundays with The Fullers. It was usually just Pete and me visiting because his parents sold their big house and moved into a small place. Some of the other family members had moved out of state. With the changes, only Pete and one of his sisters lived near his parents.

Playing board games brought us together. Nothing brings feuding family members together quite like a riveting dice game called Kismet. Interesting name for a game since the word “kismet” stands for destiny. They even convinced me to bet a quarter a game! The thought of winning a buck kept the four of us laughing and finding some common ground.

During our visits, I noticed the interesting way Noma monitored her husband. She insisted that Frog hang the pop-tops from all the beers he drank on a nail close by the kitchen table. I could only imagine how many thousands of confirmations must have hung there throughout their years together.

The Wedding

Pete and I wanted a small church wedding with only close family and friends being invited. Noma wanted us to invite more people than we could afford.

After our three-year engagement, we got married by a Justice of the Peace at the Wheaton County Courthouse. It was a simple ceremony delivered with little emotion by a complete stranger before my mom, my sister, Pete’s parents, his best friend Teddy, and one of my best friends, Becky. I don’t know if I was incredibly nervous, but I remember trembling while saying my vows. I wondered if that was how I was supposed to feel on the happiest day of my life.

Although I have few regrets, not getting married in a church ceremony before God and our family and friends has been a huge one that still makes me wonder what might have been.

After we left the courthouse, the matriarchs were riding in the backseat of our compact car on the way to our favorite restaurant, where we were treating our small wedding party to dinner. My mom and Noma discussed how many children they thought we would have and when they would arrive. My mom mentioned she was a twin and that twins happen every other generation. Pete and I did not have the heart to crush their conversation with the truth that we would never have children. So we just smiled at each other and let the grandmothers in waiting enjoy their bonding time.

Early the next morning, we drove to the scenic and fragrant Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. The mountains visually lived up to their name and filled the air with soothing scents of red spruce, Fraser fir, flame azalea, larkspur, wild columbine bells, and dogwood trees. We stayed in Gatlinburg at a quaint inn decorated with historic furniture. I noticed one of the antique end tables in the lobby with a swirling leaf design. While admiring the beautifully carved, dark wood from days gone by, I saw a humble stack of papers just waiting to be explored. It was a poem by Annie Johnson Flint entitled God Has Not Promised. The premonition begins.

Tough Cookie Tip: Love and relationships are complicated. The more you learn about what you need to be happy, the fewer mistakes you will make with your decisions. Remember, if you haven’t given a person reasons to dislike you, their rejection of you is about their unhealed hurts and unreasonable expectations.

I once heard Marie Osmond (singer, actress, and author) say: “You marry at the level of your self-esteem.” Think about it.

Copyright © 2022-2025 Marilyn K Fuller. All Rights Reserved.

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