Happy 45th Wedding Anniversary!!!

Dazzling Diana and Dapper Dave – I’d say here’s to 45 more, but let’s be honest, the folks aren’t exactly Duncan MacLeod. BUT, here is to many many more beautiful and wonderful memories and anniversaries to come!

Without your union, I wouldn’t be here today.

And boy I’m glad I happened. The goats are glad, too.

I seriously can’t thank you enough for everything through the years. Words are not enough. Pretty sure I have four other siblings that feel the same way. Love you both SO MUCH! Happy Anniversary!

Everyone should have their movie moment.  For the romantics, that might be meeting for the first time on top of the Empire States Building on Valentine’s Day.  For the action lovers, it might mean tripping a mugger as he runs off with stolen merchandise, thus saving the day.

Tripping that purse snatcher and saving the day.

For me, it was a comedy…of errors.

The scene: a casual, dimly lit restaurant in Chicago.  For ambiance, each table was illuminated by one to two tea light candles (REAL candles, FYI, not those b.s. battery powered things they try to pass as candles these days).  The only other light emanated from sparsely placed wall sconces around the restaurant and a small track light over the bar area just inside the entrance.

The time: Winter, circa 2009.  Temperatures hovered around 10 degrees Fahrenheit at 7:30 p.m.

The players: me (charming, elegant, and graceful in dark jeans and a figure hugging sweater); my husband (funny, tall, British man donning medium-dye jeans and a button-down Euro-style, long-sleeve shirt); our friend Shteve* ( bird-loving British bloke with a fabulous sense of humor wearing thick, dark denim jeans and a wooly sweater) *Shteve’s name has been changed to protect his privacy, and a waiter (not much to really say here…)

The players (minus the Waiter): Me, the hubs, and *Shteve

Action:  We arrived at the restaurant and were seated at a table along the back wall.  Shteve sat on a bench adjacent to the wall directly opposite me.  My husband sat to Shteve’s right.  The waiter passed us our menus for perusal. As we discussed ordering the charcuterie plate to share as an appetizer, I leaned in towards the center of the table to better read the menu.

Reading the menu.

I sat in this position for at least a minute while contemplating which pig products to include on our charcuterie when an unfamiliar and unpleasant odor permeated the air.  It smelled like something was burning, and I desperately hoped it was nothing in the kitchen.

As I looked around, inquiringly, I noticed that the restaurant lighting changed.  The restaurant suddenly seemed filled with glowing light bouncing off the walls that did not exist prior to my menu review.  Suddenly, I realized (or perhaps it was brought to my attention by my shrieking husband or petrified friend, Shteve…I really can’t *ahem* recall), I realized that my menu was on fire.  Apparently, when I leaned in to better read my menu, the corner of the menu caught the flame from the tea light.

Not to worry!  I observed we each had a glass of ice-water at the table.  I quickly resolved to handle the situation.  As I reached for my glass to douse the flames, I accidentally knocked it over.

So yeah … this happened.

Rather than have the effect I sought (putting out the rapidly growing flames), water spilled all over Shteve’s lap (did I mention it was ice water and he was wearing denim?).  At that point, Waiter saves the day by whisking the menu off to the kitchen to be properly extinguished.

While probably not the case for Shteve since he had to wait for the bus outside in 10 degree temperatures with a water-soaked crotch, I consider this a no-take-back. The action unfolded as slapstick and I had my movie moment.

Poor *Shteve

My husband is not a flower-giving, hand-holding, cuddly-canoodler, spend–spare-time-with-me, fun-loving, romantic–in-any-way-shape-or-form kind of guy. He is the complete antithesis of any of that. Does it bother me? Of course it does. And he knows it. We are total social and romantic opposites. But we are a love story all the same.

Here’s the thing – I’m a girl. So I do this – “Sweetie, I love you so much! Let’s go to dinner.” Clifford’s response? “No. There’s people there.” Did I forget to mention he hates people? So, still a girl, I do this  – “Honey? Want to go to a movie?” He says – “No. Why would we do that?”  Let’s add in about a million other examples of these type scenarios transpiring over eight years of marriage… a girl tends to question if the guy actually loves her or if he has just found a roommate for life (and one that doesn’t really cook and clean very well, I might add).

Well my guy loves me. But I have to remind myself it’s in a different way. I want sweet nothings whispered in my ear. I want snuggling. I want grand gestures. Well, one out of three ain’t bad.

A few of those gestures:

In college, I had a Pre-Columbian art history final to produce. It was a tribal mask made of clay. I don’t do clay. I don’t sculpt. And yes, maybe I had had two months to get it done but was just starting it at 7PM the day before it was due? Regardless, I carved my little heart out that night.  It took me hours and hours, but it was done. I was pretty proud actually. I just needed to bake it and paint it. It blew up in the oven. As I sat, completely devastated that my procrastination had somehow failed me, Clifford grabbed the extra clay and made me an identical mask. It took him hours as well, but less hours than it took me. It came out of the oven just in time for me to paint it before heading to class. He was my hero.

The mask that demonstrated Cliff’ord’s love for me. It took hours and hours. And yes, it’s supposed to look like a five year old made it, people. It’s Pre-Columbian.

He surprised me with a trip to Universal Studios for my 21^st birthday – my lifelong dream.

He built me a studio so I can illustrate.

He built me this studio.

He built me doors to keep the dogs out of my studio.

The doors look like bamboo because of the technique he used to make them. This picture doesn’t do them justice.

He built me a light table so I can trace with ease.

My beautiful light table.

He has driven over an hour every November to cut me down a Christmas tree even though I know he HATES it and the holidays.

He roasted a pig for my brother’s 40th birthday in Florida in 98 degree heat. And he HATES Florida. AND heat. AND he got super sick which means he missed out on eating any of what he roasted.

And this week, he drove up to Northern Indiana, packed my parents’ entire house in a Budget truck, by himself, in -22 degree weather, in an asinine amount of snow, missing one of Atlanta’s rare snow storms (he LOVES snow storms) only to have the truck breakdown north of Nashville, basically delaying (for another few hours) a man who hadn’t slept for 48 straight. All of this for in-laws mind you, not even his own flesh and blood …if that isn’t love, if that isn’t a grand gesture, I don’t know what is. He is dubbed “The Man” in my phone contacts for a reason.

The Man

It may not be what I think I want in terms of romance, but it is what he gives me. The next time I decide to have a fit that my husband isn’t doing something I want, or I’m upset he chose not to participate, I need to remember those things. He shows his love differently than I do.  And even though it is different, it is just as heartfelt and just as pure.

So what’s your love story? Do you have a perfect match? Or maybe your tale involves the one that got away? Love stories are some of the best no-take-backs there are. I want to share yours.