Nine more months to go. I feel it today. The uncomfortable and necessary bulge of appreciation. Niners -until Thanksgiving- that is. And yet, here we are, stuck in February, and my mind is tossing around all the things I’m thankful for.
Am I the kind of person to journal my thoughts? Not really. Thankful to have a job I love doing. Thankful to work from home. Thankful to live in a house that is far too big and nice for my simple taste. Thankful I picked up Bride Wars for four bucks the day I found out Hollywood Video was going out of business.
I am also thankful to have a guy who does the dirty work. Spider-killer. Car-washer. Computer-fixer. Someone who knows how to run his chick the perfect candlelit bubblebath and make a stellar martini. A hot and sexy guy who keeps the garage as clean as I keep the house. And sometimes, he goes way beyond all I could possibly expect and he does the unthinkable. He goes out braving snow, wind gusts, icy roads, with a low fuel light warning, and makes a journey of risk and adventure to Walmart.
Parking next to a battered car that has a screen door loosely attached to the roof, and a bumper sticker that has a spelling error in it, he clicks the lock button on my SUV’s keychain. Greetings come in the form of a grunt, from a goth teenager in a blue vest, swirling without purpose on a stool by the door. He makes his way thru the thong-laden ladies and acne-faced teens waiting in line at the pharmacy, all the way over to the aisle many men won’t even dare to pass. Women are in abundance in that aisle, along with a solo male employee, stuck stocking razors. Razor guy is careful to avoid eye contact with the man brave enough to enter by his own accord. Some of the ladies smile, others display a look of scorn and jealousy over witnessing love in its finest form.
I am at home, slung over the couch, trying to read a book that has been borrowed for longer than Bill Clinton was President. Hair in a pony-tail with freshly painted nails, can’t decide if I want Diet Coke or Sprite. I wonder which will make me feel less bloated. Neither- so I go with a glass of organic whole milk. Bad decision. If only I had chocolate chip cookies. The ringtone Adam Sandler uses in the movie, Bedtime Stories, breaks me out of my cookie fantasy. Ring. Ring. Riiiiiiing. Riiiiiing.
“Hey babe,” I say in my sweetest take-care-of-me-I-feel-awful voice.
“I don’t see the brand you told me,” he exclaims breathlessly.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yeah. High demand for this stuff,” he explains.
“ Oh, sweetie. Before I forget, can you pick up some easy-bake chocolate chip cookie dough too? They keep it over by the yogurt area. ”
“Fine. What about this other THING you said you needed? You know, the THING I came here for?”
“Ohhhh that!” I say casually, “See any overnights with wings?”
“What does ultralight mean?” he responds.
“Means they are really thin. Don’t get those. They leak." I reply, rummaging thru the pantry searching for a bag of Fritos.
Of course, I’m sensitive and smart enough to sense he wants to get my cookies home to me as soon as possible. I quickly agree to a substitute and opt out of explaining or defining the language that complicates purchasing feminine hygiene products. I know better than to bore him with my irrational fears about toxic shock syndrome or my crazy philosophy on why alternating between internal and external products depending on whether its day-time or night-time resonates as logical to me.
When I hear the garage door opening, I jump up and put away the Fritos. Meeting him at the door, I give him a squeeze and a kiss, as I tell him how much I appreciate his trip to hell and back. He smirks, hands me my bags of necessities, and knows my true appreciation won’t be for another few days. How thankful can I be-nine months from Thanksgiving-except to preheat the oven, pop in Bride Wars for later, and enjoy the fact I have someone to love, a guy that appreciates me as much as I do him. A man like that is hard to come by. And I know it. The ladies in that aisle know it. Razor-guy knows it.
Love. Sacrifice. Appreciation. Now, back to this book I can't seem to get into.
Listening today to Two Is Better Than One by Boys like Girls.
Cheers~JB
Am I the kind of person to journal my thoughts? Not really. Thankful to have a job I love doing. Thankful to work from home. Thankful to live in a house that is far too big and nice for my simple taste. Thankful I picked up Bride Wars for four bucks the day I found out Hollywood Video was going out of business.
I am also thankful to have a guy who does the dirty work. Spider-killer. Car-washer. Computer-fixer. Someone who knows how to run his chick the perfect candlelit bubblebath and make a stellar martini. A hot and sexy guy who keeps the garage as clean as I keep the house. And sometimes, he goes way beyond all I could possibly expect and he does the unthinkable. He goes out braving snow, wind gusts, icy roads, with a low fuel light warning, and makes a journey of risk and adventure to Walmart.
Parking next to a battered car that has a screen door loosely attached to the roof, and a bumper sticker that has a spelling error in it, he clicks the lock button on my SUV’s keychain. Greetings come in the form of a grunt, from a goth teenager in a blue vest, swirling without purpose on a stool by the door. He makes his way thru the thong-laden ladies and acne-faced teens waiting in line at the pharmacy, all the way over to the aisle many men won’t even dare to pass. Women are in abundance in that aisle, along with a solo male employee, stuck stocking razors. Razor guy is careful to avoid eye contact with the man brave enough to enter by his own accord. Some of the ladies smile, others display a look of scorn and jealousy over witnessing love in its finest form.
I am at home, slung over the couch, trying to read a book that has been borrowed for longer than Bill Clinton was President. Hair in a pony-tail with freshly painted nails, can’t decide if I want Diet Coke or Sprite. I wonder which will make me feel less bloated. Neither- so I go with a glass of organic whole milk. Bad decision. If only I had chocolate chip cookies. The ringtone Adam Sandler uses in the movie, Bedtime Stories, breaks me out of my cookie fantasy. Ring. Ring. Riiiiiiing. Riiiiiing.
“Hey babe,” I say in my sweetest take-care-of-me-I-feel-awful voice.
“I don’t see the brand you told me,” he exclaims breathlessly.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yeah. High demand for this stuff,” he explains.
“ Oh, sweetie. Before I forget, can you pick up some easy-bake chocolate chip cookie dough too? They keep it over by the yogurt area. ”
“Fine. What about this other THING you said you needed? You know, the THING I came here for?”
“Ohhhh that!” I say casually, “See any overnights with wings?”
“What does ultralight mean?” he responds.
“Means they are really thin. Don’t get those. They leak." I reply, rummaging thru the pantry searching for a bag of Fritos.
Of course, I’m sensitive and smart enough to sense he wants to get my cookies home to me as soon as possible. I quickly agree to a substitute and opt out of explaining or defining the language that complicates purchasing feminine hygiene products. I know better than to bore him with my irrational fears about toxic shock syndrome or my crazy philosophy on why alternating between internal and external products depending on whether its day-time or night-time resonates as logical to me.
When I hear the garage door opening, I jump up and put away the Fritos. Meeting him at the door, I give him a squeeze and a kiss, as I tell him how much I appreciate his trip to hell and back. He smirks, hands me my bags of necessities, and knows my true appreciation won’t be for another few days. How thankful can I be-nine months from Thanksgiving-except to preheat the oven, pop in Bride Wars for later, and enjoy the fact I have someone to love, a guy that appreciates me as much as I do him. A man like that is hard to come by. And I know it. The ladies in that aisle know it. Razor-guy knows it.
Love. Sacrifice. Appreciation. Now, back to this book I can't seem to get into.
Listening today to Two Is Better Than One by Boys like Girls.
Cheers~JB
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