fivebyevif

I’m not prone to “I have a great guy” posts. Not because I don’t, but because when I was single and reading the posts of other women talking about their great guy, they always sounded slightly…defensive? Territorial? Smug? Bragalicious?

I agree: probably jealousy on my part. But I’m not prone to bragging. I’m far too modest for that.

There is another reason not to write these posts: superstition. It’s like the old adage from knitters: never knit a sweater for your boyfriend. You’re guaranteed to break up a week after you block the damn thing.

But screw that, because you know what? I have a great guy.

I could tell you a lot of ways in which he is great, but I was thinking about two examples this morning as I was doing some chores that needed to be done due to the impending Mexicopalypse.

Reason Number One: The Teapot
I realize this is a material reason, but bear with me. For Christmas, he got me a teapot. Not any teapot. He got me a patina green, cast iron dragonfly teapot. I don’t even want to think about what it cost, because I know what it cost, and it’s why I never bought one for myself. And when I opened it up, I nearly started crying. Dude, I have wanted this teapot for years and just never bought it because it was such a frivolous purchase. But it’s gorgeous and it’s mine and it’s because of him and we are using it for dinner tonight because he looked at me all excited last night and said, “Are we going to have tea? In the teapot?”

Yes. Yes, we are going to have tea. In the teapot.

Extra added bonus: the thing is heavy enough that any burglars had better watch out. That’s how we like our teapots around here. Green and lethal.

Reason Number Two: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
I was making dinner last night, which was Thai-inspired and thus entailed a lot of chopping. Jalapenos, cilantro, onions, cucumbers, mint. As I was mixing up the cucumber salad dressing I heard behind me a scrape (of a chair), then a thump (of him sitting down), and then: “The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village….”

You see, I once confessed to him that I hadn’t read the entirety of the Hitchhiker’s Guide. He was mortified and, in turn, tried to lend me his copy, but I refused stating that every copy I had ever owned had vanished under mysterious circumstances, and his copy is very nice (it’s like a Bible: leather bound, thin pages, satin bookmark) and I did not want this to happen to it.

“Fine then,” he said. “I’ll read it to you.”

So that’s what we’re doing. While I prep meals, he reads me chapters of the Guide.

I don’t want to gloat or brag or smirk smarmily, but come on: that’s awesome.

I’m wrapping up chores this morning. So far I’ve scheduled a cab, prepped Miss Geriatricat’s medicated food, started a load of laundry, cleaned up the kitchen, a half dozen other little things, and even managed to eat breakfast. Next up: finish the rough draft of the story I want to have done before the trip.

When I get back, I hope to have Dr. Siler’s diagnosis and some medication waiting for me. I woke up three times last night that I can recall, and wandered out into the hallway at some point. Honestly, I don’t know why I woke up at 9 AM like I did; probably just too much to do, and the brain won’t shut down as it should.

Have a lovely week, all.