He's home and I feel the spontaneous need to break out into a little motown number. "Oh yeah....he's home....can you hear it?......he's home..." with some really good back-up singers of course. "How about we all go to see 'Knocked Up' this afternoon?' he says. Oh, a man after my own heart.
One of the hens, probably Muffin, started clucking in an alarmed voice at about 3:30am. I went outside to see what was going on with my able companion, the dalmatian, who barked twice half-heartedly and ran back inside to her cozy warm spot on the sofa. So much for guard dogs. J's theory is that Muffin was trying to scare a rat, but I don't buy it. He watches too many movies.
I am trying to get my head around the fact that we have been married for 19 years on Monday, June 11. I met him in November of my twentieth year. I was a spring chicken. So was he. Or whatever the male equivalent is of that, without sounding lewd. This morning I woke up to find him staring at me smiling, "you are so beautiful" he says as I lie there awash with morning breath and frizzy hair and I think to myself, this isn't the time to make a joke, be gracious, be serene, but all I can think is why I didn't brush my teeth when I was up at four. "I nearly died yesterday" I say. "I'm not making it up." (I wonder who in my life told me that I made things up!). "I know," he says, "that would have been the worst day of my life." It's sweet isn't it? He's off to ride his bike now and I'm grumpy, like post-traumatic stress. He's been gone so long that I just want him to stay here so that I can stare at him and ponder our hideously long marriage and wonder what on earth we still see in each other. Actually, it doesn't take long to figure that one out, for me anyway. This is very nice. Very nice indeed.