In the spirit of keeping the New Years goals (it IS only January 2nd, after all) I am making attempts to be a better wife. Not just today, but every day. Or whatever.
Last night, I used some of my super-fine new lotion (you know, the eight hundred tons I got for Christmas? Yeah. That.) to rub my husband's feet. I would tell you what he said but it was dirty and I have a reputation to uphold.
STOP LAUGHING.
Anyway. So one thing that Jason and I always do is leave each other notes on the fridge. Mostly because he cannot. remember. anything. Ever. So we started this leaving each other notes on the fridge because I am a total Diet Pepsi addict and must have one immediately upon waking. And he usually gets some water out of the fridge before leaving for work. Since he's so health conscious. Except for his smoking a pack a day and eating fast food crap daily for lunch and all.
We call it "Love on the fridgerator!" (Like that song...you know...Love in an Elevator? Also, I know that's not spelled right. We're dorks.) Sometimes we even sing it to one another.
I totally meant to leave him a note this morning, but I forgot. I suck. But tomorrow is another day!
Also, yesterday we went to Ruby Tuesday's for lunch. I got White Bean Chicken Chili and the salad bar. (My son declared that he was glad he was going to grandma's because, WOO, was I going to have some really stinky gas after eating all those beans. And I told him not all beans give you gas. But he was totally right. And I'm not telling him that. Ahem.) With my soup I got a single piece of garlic bread.
I love bread. I love bread the way most people love their husbands. If I could only eat one food for the rest of my entire life, it would be bread. Also, I would die really, really soon from carb-overload. But I would die with a smile on my fat face because I LOVE BREAD.
My husband loves bread in the way most people love their wives. In our household you gauge the amount of love you have for someone by whether or not you are willing to give them the end piece of bread. The end piece is the most coveted piece available. I know there are two ends. But still, somehow it always ends up that one or the other of us gets ONE of the two ends and then says to the other, "Do you want this end piece?" I mean, duh. The answer to that is ALWAYS going to be yes.
So anyway. I tore apart my one single, solitary piece of garlic bread and gave him half of it. He looked amazed and then pleased and he ate it with a flourish.
That, my friends, is real love. Right there.
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8 comments:
You know it baby! That's how we gauge our love! Why do you think our great compliment is loving folks on bagels! xoxo
Now I'm singing the BeeGees.
"How Deep is YOUR LOVE? I really need to know.."
See that's why Jeff and I are a matched pair. I don't care for the butt...he loves the butt end of bread.
But Jeff..is an butt man...through and through.
We hate the ends! I will send you all of the ends because I probably have six wadded up bread bags with just two end pieces in them.
Don't. Like. The. Ends?
This...I just can't comprehend it...
I was going to offer you my ends also but Bethany beat me to it. My husband feeds them to the birds. I throw them in the garbage. I hate bird shite on my fence.
Oh I hate birds period.
Actually, I'm terrified of birds, so I'll amend that slightly.
Either way, I don't want them around.
We take our ends to the park down the street (which is basically the grounds for the state mental hospital! I love my town!) and feed them to the tubby groundhog who lives by the smaller pond.
Last fall the groundhog took bread ends from my hand while I nearly died of glee and MB nearly went nuts saying, "Watch out! I think it's going to charge you! Not so close!"
I love you so much.
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