There’s no one else I’d rather be with at the end of the world than you.

I think it’s fair to say – even though plenty of sci-fi writers were able to nail it, I don’t think we ever thought it would go down like this.  And for what it’s worth, I do believe in the power of us.  I believe – no matter how recklessly foolish it is to believe – that you and I are going to make it through.

We have seen tough times.  Out of 17 years together, we have been on both sides of the life coin.  We’ve had no savings, lived paycheck to paycheck, a boatload of debt, and nothing but Kraft macaroni and cheese in the cabinet.  (Not the creamy kind.  The bright orange powder kind.  Some would say that’s the best shit.)  Countless long hours away from each other.  Silent rides home in the car, words unspoken.  Arguments before bedtime, words shouted or said through gritted teeth.  The death of those we have loved.  Days we didn’t think we were going to make it.  Nights where no one slept.  A lot of unbearable farts.  Job losses, friendships ended, hormones, and crashing waves of fear and hurt.

We’ve seen amazing times.  17 years of laughing until both of us cried, of having friends over and feeding them, of playing games until the wee hours of the morning, of talking about politics and philosophy and art and writing, of watching a million series and movies together.  Of showing each other things we think are cool, or weird, or unsettling.  Of reading to each other.  Dancing, so much dancing.  Of sharing music.  Playing records.  New careers.  Of being there for each other.  Of moves to new places, of meeting new people, of trying new things.  Of celebrating each other’s successes, both apart and together.  Of marrying some of our friends.  Of after-parties and bouts and winning games we didn’t think we could win.  Of falling in love over and over, all the time.

17 years of you hugging me tight so I won’t fly apart.

And I am flying apart right now.  The thing I know for certain is that you won’t let me.

We have been married for ten years today, and it doesn’t feel like yesterday.  But it feels like tomorrow is as real as the table at which I sit.

Yet I know we only really have today.  Right Now.

And I only have this minute guaranteed to tell you that you are the love of my fucking life.



Happy Anniversary, Nameless Faceless Killer!

It’s 7:05 am.  My husband has just told me that for some inexplicable reason, our garage door is open.  Not wide open, but like, person-crawling-in-size open, 3 feet off the ground.

I bolt out of my Hunger Games-reading stupor and say quietly, “what the fuck,” because this is exactly the way I need to be woken up on a Monday.   Unfortunately, said husband is leaving for work.  We both stand in the garage as if to say, SHOW YOURSELF MOTHERFUCKER!!!  But alas, no one does.  Husband moves to leave.  “You’ll be ok,” he says winningly.  “I put your .38 by your desk.”  Somehow this is supposed to comfort me, and I guess it does a little, while I walk through the house turning on every light.  This will be a non-showering day.  Awesome.

Husband leaves.  I proceed to do some dishes while my trusty Lady Smith sits beside me on the counter.  I look out the front door when finished only to find that THE GARAGE DOOR IS NOW ALL THE WAY UP, WIDE OPEN.

There are only 2 possible reasons for this:

1) There may be someone in the neighborhood who has a  garage door opener that is somehow on the same frequency (but this never really happens, does it)



Neither of these thoughts are comforting.

Did I mention that I have a broken leg?  And that I have just quit smoking in the last week?  I am the slowest and angriest person you have ever met.  No matter.  I proceed outside with phone and gun in hand, sort of trying to conceal it as there is a little old man walking his dog and I really don’t want to alarm him by looking insane. I stare into the garage like it holds some ancient mystery.  Like the Ark of the Covenant is deep inside it.  I am really just looking for evidence that someone has been up in here trying to steal our…our what?  Our priceless bags of Salvation Army clothes?  Our double-sink granite vanity that we will never install that weighs literally 500 pounds?  Our two completely hideous Christmas trees?  No sir, there is nothing in here for you.  Trust me.  While I’m standing outside the garage in my pajama pants holding a gun, I attempt to close the door by just reaching my hand inside and pushing the button.  The door will not close completely though – when I press the button, it will get to the ground and then bounce back up like something is blocking its path.  I decide to enter the dark and frightening chasm that is our garage.  I close the door with the button again, this time holding the door down as it hits the ground.  Mission accomplished, door fucking closed, may I go on with my Monday now?  I HAVE NOT HAD COFFEE YET.

I text my husband to tell him the door was wide open.  He phones immediately and I ask him if there is a way to secure the door.  There is.  I do it.  He says:

“There are only two reasons this would happen.”

Yes, I am well aware.  Happy anniversary, baby.  

Well, if it’s reason number two, the killer/sink-and-Christmas-tree thief  is gone now, and if not, he might as well come on inside.  I’m a bundle of joy in the morning.  And it’s a Monday.  You just hit the jackpot, buddy.