I love my husband.
I love the way he just knows when I need a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato soup.
I love the way that he makes me laugh no matter how yucky I feel.
I love that when I wake up late for the third day in a row and throw my hair into that top knot that says “it is time to wash my hair” he walks in and tells me how sexy he thinks I am with soft romantic tossled hair.
I love that he works so hard to provide for his family and that he puts that same energy into the things he enjoys like guitars and hearses and our little museum of oddities and creepy things.
He is handsome and passionate and charming and kind. He is the very first person to help a friend in need. No one leaves our house without a full belly and a smile; maybe a book or two.
He is so very silly. He makes the best popcorn known to man. He lets me put my cold feet on him at night. His touch makes my knees weak. He treats our handsome English Bull terrier like one of our kids and also like his best friend. He can fill the hot water bottle without getting the cover wet.
He can be impulsive and he gets fired up easily. He loves his whisky and occasionally a little too much. He bites his nails and he snores almost as loud as the dog. He is an even bigger book hoarder than I am. He is loud and feisty and sometimes he drives me batty but I wouldn’t trade him for anything.
I am the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.