Oh and a little extra lurve out to my mom who picked up the wine tab tonight. Nothing says Merry Christmas like riesling...which is fueling this post. So, judge me if you must on grammatical errors and syntax mis-steps, but I'll know that really you're just resentful. Don't hate...it's Christmas.
So, the next 12 reasons why my husband rocks socks and makes life entertaining, if not always easy.
- You don't laugh at me when I do things like proclaim the garden tub to be busted and then call a plumber who pulls down on the faucet instead of twisting clockwise and TA-DA! There's water! That's after he has taken the whole thing apart and drafted a bill for his hour's worth of labor which is equivalent to an apartment building in Tokyo.
- You understand that I don't understand things like audio in/output, hard drive space, and binary code. You accept that I would rather discuss scrapbooking layouts as opposed to Google's dashboard approach to privacy. We can always meet somewhere in the middle, usually over Ghiradelli chocolate chip cookies.
- When I thought that I had accidentally registered as a republican, you did not leave me stranded on the JFK Expressway. I'm glad that one worked out, though. This house is not big enough for 2 cats, an elephant and an ass.
- You sent me to massage school although I'm pretty sure you knew you'd never be the benefactor of that knowledge. When people bring it up at parties, you just smile and professionally evade the perpetual question: "just how good is she?"
- When we are distracted by baristas in brown and green and therefore end up running for planes in major airports, you will eventually wait for me (because I am in "cute" shoes, not sprint-through-ATL-with-hot-beverage-sneakers).
- When I was pregnant, you budgeted $100 per month toward clothing. Only a woman who is expanding in every direction except up can appreciate this.
- Sometimes I say that I will get up with you and workout at the buttcrack of dawn (AKA roughly 5:30 AM). I am a victim of my own guilty conscience when I agree to this. You get it, you don't hold me to it, and above all you forgive me for it and go on your merry way. I think you realize that 9 AM is my 5:30.
- I pass out from fear of imminent death on kiddie rollercoasters. You ski black-diamond slopes and sky dive. We've spent a lot of time purposely not dying. I groove on that.
- You had me at "let's join a wine club."
- You made room in your house for my piano, my cats, my antique furniture and all of my shoes. And then you let me design my own engagement ring. You are the equivalent of Sam Baldwin, Edward Lewis, Michael Green, and Jack Callaghan all rolled up in one (and even more adorable because you won't know who any of those characters are).
- In high school, you played the clarinet. That plays no role in our married life or in how you treat me like the lead singer of your rock band, I just think it's cute...you with your little pursed lips and heel-ball-toe marching.
- When you got deployment orders, you cried too. Suddenly, I didn't feel like such an over-emotional hot mess of a wife. I soldiered through a lot of long and lonely nights with that image in my mind.
- You fill my world with laughter. And that is the best gift of all. Well, that and the tight little ass of yours.