Wednesday, March 30, 2011

The Birthday B(oy)

Today is my husband's birthday. That means it is time to celebrate that he survived another year. I didn't kill him. He didn't kill me. We might have come close a few times (particularly when I was wearing my leather bustier and carrying my whip), but always stopped in the nick of time (and at the safe word). Therefore, I feel if necessary to make a list.

A LIST OF REALLY GOOD REASONS WHY I LOVE B, DESPITE HIS PENCHANT FOR DOING REALLY ANNOYING THINGS LIKE CRITIQUING MY DRIVING AND LEAVING HIS JEANS ON THE BATHROOM COUNTER FOR DAYS AT A TIME UNTIL I GIVE IN AND PICK THEM UP AND WASH THEM, JUST SO THEY ARE NOT LYING THERE IN THE WAY OF ME AND MY MASCARA ANY LONGER BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW THAT I FUCKING HATE TO HAVE SHIT IN MY WAY OR, FRANKLY, OUT OF PLACE IN GENERAL

1. Plane decent~ This past fall, B managed to get my Dad's plane to Virginia. It cost a fucking fortune and it's not completely finished, but it is here, it is dry and safe, and it is ready to be completed. B spent hours of endless worry on this project-- finding transportation, finding a location to keep it once it arrived, getting it here in one piece without any wings or tail pieces getting relocated as it careened through the mountains. He called and emailed and visited and calculated. You get the idea. Many guys would have said balked at the prospect of hauling a full-size Piper SuperCub from Cleveland, Tennessee to Suffolk, Virginia. But not my B. He made it happen. Yes, he did.

2. Bloody Saturday~ On the Saturday after Thanksgiving when Sutton decided to take flight from his scooter right across Bennett's Creek Park Road, it was B who scooped him up and carried him all the way back home again. This was past about seventeen houses, carrying a very bloody, screaming, thirty-seven pound five-year-old. Then he cleaned him up and took him to the ER for stitches. No drama, no worries. He even had me settled down (nobody likes watching their baby bleed-- if you do, you are one sick asshole). He took control. Likewise, yesterday when Sutton fell off the monkey bars at school and landed on his neck, he left work and met me at the pediatrician's office. He may have submarine meetings and important engineering shit going on, but nothing comes before his kid.

3. Except Maybe Me~ One evening, after I had had an especially shitty day filled with especially shitty goings on, B came home from work with the following, all for me: a bottle of my favorite wine, flowers, a trashy celebrity gossip magazine, and a bag full of Lindt's truffles. Another night, I texted him (already drunk-- he knew this) at school and told him I was craving champagne. On his way home from school, he stopped and bought a bottle and brought it to me. A few Fridays ago I was broken-hearted, so he took me for Mexican food because he knows that anything covered in melted cheese is comfort food to me, particularly when served with Dos Equis in a frosted glass. Dude's got my back, yo. Every single time. I'm lucky like that.

4. Hand Job~ One day, not long ago, for reasons I have yet to determine, B decided to wash my car. I do not wash my car. The Xterra is rough and rugged. It likes to go baja and run over shit. It does not like to be clean (on the outside-- inside, it loves clean. Clean is its best friend, inside.) I have washed my car...... maybe twice? Ever. But B washed it. Because he loves me. Why? I don't know. That would be a whole other blog about whole other things. Maybe one day, I'll let B write a WHY I LOVE HALEY blog on my blog site just to mind fuck you all.

5. My Merry Maid~ And the boy cleans too! I'm a super neat freak who loves things to be spic-and-span and shiny all the damn time. I want you to be able to eat off my kitchen floor. I like the laundry folded and put away. I want things to look clean and smell pretty. I crave PERFECTION. Yet this is impossible to reach when you work two jobs and have two kids and two dogs and a husband who thinks that the bar counter in the kitchen is his own personal junk depository. But last Thursday when I came home from the endocrinologist, sad and frustrated because I had been poked and prodded and declared unfit THE HOUSE WAS SPOTLESS. He cleaned. He did the laundry. He made everything in my quiet little bubble world all sqeaky and perfect because he knew it would make me feel better. And it did.

B does a million things for me on any given day. I return the favor. I iron his shirts and do the shopping, he makes quesadillas when I need to work instead of cook. I go for days at a time without wearing makeup or doing anything to my hair besides washing it and piling it on top of my head and he says I look beautiful. He gets me warm when I'm cold and lets me verbally abuse his family when I see fit. Now, ten years into our yin-and-yang, I still feel grateful to have him in my world.

I think I'll keep him.

Happy Birthday, B.

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