Day 10 - A picture of someone you see yourself marrying in the future.
Well, as I've already crossed that bridge, I suppose this should be a love-fest about the hairball I married.
I should start by saying I never figured I would marry. I mean, I'm a handful. And I figured there just wasn't a dude out there that a) could handle or tolerate all my shit or b) would interest me longer than a month. I figured I'd become this Dorothy Parker character with a few dogs, a drinking problem and a smart mouth.
The night I met him, I had sworn off men. Ok--backtrack: sworn off relationships. I had been sprung on some jackass who kept me waiting by the phone for the call he never made--and he wasn't the first one--so I had a long chat with myself, and prepared myself for my Algonquin Round Table future.
So imagine my surprise when I laid eyes on this fuzzy beast wearing a velour shirt in the crappy dive bar (complete with Thai whores--NOT kidding--and accessible pool table) and told my friend, "I'm gonna marry that guy." My friend swiftly bought me a drink because he thought I was possessed by demons or at least, sobriety. But I knew it, down to my toes that I would spend the rest of my life with this guy--big shoulders, fuzzy face, velour shirt and all.
He started the night by sassin' me, and the rest of the evening, including the strip club and subsequent bar-hopping is frankly not worth reporting upon (for fear of legal repercussions and in respect of the delicate sensibilities of my readers) other than we seemed to get along swell, and he asked me out for a real date later.
That first date was at Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles--which should tell you everything you need to know.
This man, the father of my child, the Alpha Male of this house, and the mixer of strong cocktails, has made me laugh every day of our marriage--and most of the ones before. He lets me freak out over silly shit without judgement, (at least that I don't see, eh?), pampers me when he can, celebrates my triumphs and gives me that meaty shoulder to cry on when necessary. He is the traditional provider to my not-so-traditional housewife. He is an awesome dad who takes over the night shift when he gets home so that I can take five minutes (or 50) to frickin' catch my breath over a glass of wine. He accepts Ben for who he is, trying to make his day easier when it's frustrating, fun when it's boring, and calm when too much is going on. And he will, from time to time, load the dishwasher when I'm not looking. ;)
so here's to you, my unga-bunga man with your fruity girly drinks and your baseball obsession. You can continue to say inappropriate things to me until I'm dead.
And btw--the dishes in the dishwasher are clean…