It has been.... years... since I last wrote you a birthday card. Or note. I guess this is what happens when you buy your own presents and just send me the bill. But hey, whatever works and gets you the present you want... I'm down with that.
But it's late, and I've been feeling sentimental, so I wrote this one for you.
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It's easy to list the things you do that irritate or bug the living hell out of me:
How your clothes are always on the hamper, or around the hamper, but never IN the hamper.
Your irrational annoyance with security guards, waiters and motorcycle drivers.
The innumerable times I've had near death drowning experiences in the toilet because you never remember to put the toilet seat down.
Your insistence on squeezing the toothpaste tube in the middle.
Your jet engine like snoring.
The hoarding.
Feeding the kids cheetos and chocolate before meal times.
The perverse pleasure you get out of anonymously poking or pinching my ass in public that has lead me to mistakenly hit several unsuspecting men with my handbag.
And how you're secretly trying to kill me by wiping chocolate stained fingers on MY towels so that the ants attack me fresh out of the shower.
Oh I could go on and on..... And I could.
And I could focus on all these things you do that drive me crazy.
And I'd forget about the things that make me crazy... about you.
How you always hold my hand when I sit in the passenger seat of the car.
How you always think of me when you're buying CDs and buy albums of bands I like or you'd think I'd like. Without asking if I already own them --- which is why we have 3 copies of Dogs Die in Hot Cars and 5 copies of Faded Seaside Glamour by The Delays.
How there isn't an electric appliance or broken toy or device that you can't fix. You are Handy Manny and Macgyver rolled into one.
I remember how you let me sleep on your chest (all 1*& pounds of me) when we lost the babies because I couldn't go to sleep.
How your "Y" genes gave me two beautiful daughters who look nothing alike yet, oddly enough, both look like you.
On the rare occasion that you sing "Deeply Dippy" or play "Born Slippy" it still makes me feel giddy.
How you always call me when you're on your way home because you still miss those times we used drive home from work together and just talk and talk and talk.
And how every so often you will talk to me about work and ask my advice, even though I haven't been a banker in almost 4 years, because you think I'm "still smarter than half the people I deal with".
Oh I could go on and on and on.... And I could.
No matter how frustrated I can get with you sometimes, nothing has ever overshadowed the fact that you are still the best
friend I have, the best person I know, and the best man that you could be.
Happy Birthday dear husband.
Yes, you are still the "jackpot". And to this day I still don't know what the contest was for.
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