the night we met

How Many F#!@% Cats Do You Have?

This is my inaugural Finish The Sentence Friday Post! With this particular prompt, I couldn’t resist. You’ll see why:

One Halloween I…

met the greatest guy in.the.world. I was at a bar with a friend, and this cute guy asked Frank-the-bartender who the girl with the beautiful smile was. Three hours of non-stop chatter later, I gave the cute guy my number on a cocktail napkin. We still have that napkin.

That cute guy had his work cut out for him. For one, at that time I had eight cats. Let that sink in for a minute. Eight. Cats. For some insane reason, that didn’t deter him. He not only pretended to like them in the beginning, he scooped litter and cleaned hairballs for fifteen years until the last one passed away.

PaPa?

He tolerated the year I quit smoking, which is also the year I chewed Nicorrette gum and gained twelve pounds, which is also the year he woke up with Nicorrette gum stuck in his armpit hair cuz I always fell asleep with the gum in my mouth. He patiently helped while I graduated college, supported me when I decided what I really wanted to do had absolutely nothing to do with my degree, and cheered me on through years of trying to figure myself out.

He has an incredibly stressful job…but you’d never know it. Somehow he’s able to leave his high-stress world at the door when he comes home to us, always making time to take the boys for a bike ride, or help with homework, or wrestle with them before bedtime. And I don’t think a day has gone by in over 17 years that he hasn’t told me I’m beautiful.

He changed diapers, scoops poop, walks dogs, makes my coffee Every.Single.Morning, puts up with my crazy antics, tolerates the fact that I don’t like to cook, and how I always leave that one cabinet door open. His family is awesomesauce, (yes, even my MIL!) and he didn’t care that I didn’t want a wedding. I’m in absolute awe of his patience and tenacity, and I’m so proud of the husband, father, and bad-to-the-bone mountain biking athlete he is.

my bad-ass better half

my bad-ass better half

If you know me, you know I’m not a mushy girl. This post is probably the mushiest thing I’ve ever done for him. To this day, I’ve only mustered the L-word a few times, you know, on very special occasions. We don’t throw it around like “hello” and “goodbye”. In fact, we literally say “L-word” in lieu of the other three words. If I do say “it”, I have to throw in cuss words to make it sound less fluffy. I’m adorable like that.

Fortunately, he’s the same way, although he’d admit to being the more sentimental one. In fact, it’s uncanny how alike we are. There’s no doubt in my mind that Halloween night of 1996 was Devine Intervention. The Universe…or maybe guardian angels…making sure I got someone who would take care of me (and all my crazy animals) forever.

So without further ado, Happy Halloweenaversary, Jim. I fucking love the shit outta you. (I tried, but I still have to cuss. Some things never change)

*This post is part of Friday’s Finish the Sentence Blog Hop, hosted by Finding Ninnee, Kate Whinehall, Mommy is For Real and Confessions of a Mommyaholic

Finish the Sentence Friday