Love letter to my husband

My husband has, at various times, been outted in this blog for his love of fashion, his struggles with early morning parenting, his bodily functions and more. He bears all of this with some humor and some pain and a lot of avoidance of those whom he knows read this blog. He also, in the Real World, not only tolerates me but loves me. So for that, and so much more, I write him this love letter for all to read.

Dear G:

I love you because....

....you pick up my underwear off the floor each and every day and no longer ask me "hey, are you finished with these?"

....when I have a bad day you meet me at the door with a crazy, made up cocktail created from organic juices and vodka and a vow to watch the newly DVR'd American Idol with me. And only once tell me that people who watch this show are IDIOTS.

....when I am a raccoon-eyed bag lady in yesterday's makeup, wearing my striped "spa" socks from RiteAid with my black Target yoga pants and a free logo'd tshirt in a color that actually manages to clash with black, you tell me I'm HOT. And mean it.

....you tell me not to lose an ounce, even after I've gained ten pounds of butt-at-desk-24/7 weight.

....you make me peanut butter toast at 2am, with extra butter, without any regard for the effect on my heart or thighs but well aware of the comfort that heart attack with a side of crumbs brings me. Almost as much as the sight of your face next to mine on the pillow each and every morning.

Thanks, honey. I love you. Please remember that the next time I out you for something on this blog. After all, I'm a writer...I can't help it.