He speaks my shorthand. He knows what “Let’s be mice ladies” means. He understands me when I say AH BLAH BLAH HELICOPTOR! AH BLAH BLAH SPAN! He can navigate the convoluted rules governing whether or not a person should be given a Cathead; he has never wrongfully Catheaded me, and he has never protested being given a richly deserved one.
He is a pool shark. Do NOT play him for money.
He genetically caused half of the two most excellent children in the universe. I am pretty sure he spawned the GOOD halves.
He. Is. The. Most. Patient. Person. Alive.
Everyone thinks his eyes are brown because they are so dark and deep set, but I know they are secretly green.
He is an excellent kisser.
He never let me ruin our lives with Crazy Farm Plan, but when I came up with a GOOD plan he executed it with merciless speed. The movers come tomorrow.
He is a man of deep faith and abiding integrity.
He gets deeply excited about songs and sometimes even feels things in relationship to songs. Sometimes he makes me listen to songs, as if, after all these years, he thinks that ONE DAY I might wake up and be a person who really loves her some songs. This tells me that even though he likes me just like I am, he is open to the possibility that I could, ANY SECOND, up and CHANGE, or even grow as a person, though I say I am categorically against it. Here’s one:
He shaves his head down to tiny stubbles that I like to pet. When he gets enough hair back that his head feels like bristles I call him a hippie.
He is always nice to me.He secretly loves dogs. He says he doesn’t love dogs, that he tolerates them, that they are OKAY HE GUESSES, that he will put up with them because I need little hairy heartbeats in the house to be happy. And this is an accurate representation of how he feels about cats. But SECRETLY? He totally loves dogs. I can tell because he makes this CHUKKACHUKKA noise as he scratches their ears and ALSO he does a thing called DOG PUNCH where he slo-mo superhero punches them in the face while saying DOG PUNCH! in this goofy voice. The dogs push at each other and jostle to be dog punched next. This man loves dogs.
He smells like the best thing that ever had a smell, and he smells specifically exactly like only him. You could blindfold me and put me in a room with half a hundred men and I could find him with my nose.
HE CAN FIX THINGS WITH TOOLS. Like, wood things and machines and even electricity things, and he fixes them well and safely in this casual, confident—-almost insouciant—way that is, excuse me, hot.
A spider bit me on the throat so I have a HUGE RED NECK PUFF like a baby goiter and I slept on my face so I have sleep-creases OVER the wrinkles and I wore a HUGE, 16 year old, black, fabric-pill covered maternity shirt that is the living embodiment of the antithesis of sexy to bed last night because all my things are packed, and when I woke up this morning he was looking at me like I invented pretty.
He doesn’t care about brand names, he does not care what the Joneses have, he does not believe that his car is in some kind of cosmic relationship with his genitals, and he has absolutely no sense of personal style. If clothes are not itchy and cover enough nudity to satisfy social conventions, then they are good clothes. If the sofa is comfortable to sit on, then it is a good sofa. If the car goes quietly from A to B using only a modicum of gas, then it is a good car. The end.He is 6’3” and strong like bull, but he can be so gentle…when we got Ansley-dog, who had an unsatisfying homelife before she came to us, he stepped softly and spoke in a falsetto whisper for weeks, until she stopped peeing at the sound of his spooky-man-voice.
He thinks it’s funny and kinda cute that I am SO ungrounded in space and time that I did not realize that today was our anniversary, and he doesn’t care a fig that I am STILL not certain if we have been married 18 or 19 years today. He says he is just glad to be married to me.
HE REMEMBERED. And he is taking to me to Cakes and Ale.