Much of this blog has been a love letter to Groom.
I’ve felt lately, more than ever, that the blogging conceit of pseudonyms can be fairly tiring. Anyhow, so, yea. He’s Byron. Most of you knew that already.
If not, here’s your pneumonic device. Byron. As in, Lord Byron. As in, Romantic Poet. As in, my personal romance guy.
Outside of the fact that I married someone with an actual name (versus my first husband, who went by —–. Lawsy, but it was hard to call out to him as he browsed the produce section in the Cub foods when I was trying to get his attention to tell him that there were samples of Dublin cheddar out on a platter in the deli. I’d be all “——! ———!” and he’d never even glance up from the bundles of asparagus he was handling a bit too fondly…speaking of why we ultimately broke up).
In case I just fooled some of you: no, I never had a first husband.
Wait, I mean, I did. I do. It’s the one I have now.
But there was never a ——- before him.
And I can’t foresee any kind of future with a —— after him.
Because he is my One and Only. In every possible soppy way.
His many wonders have been chronicled on this blog in the past, so I needn’t belabor my swooniness. But ho and what hark? Hold up! There is something new to add to the litany of Byron delights: he added a ton of spinach into our red lentil soup the other night because we’d brought home a big box of produce from his sister’s farm after Thanksgiving, and the spinach was going to go off pretty quickly,
and–don’t get me wrong, I really like spinach, just not as a flotilla in my soup–
…I’ll be damned if those lily pads of spinach streamers didn’t manage to enhance what was already a wonderful concoction.
This is what Byron did for my life. His lily-pad-spinach-streamer self enhanced what was already a wonderful concoction.
He’s my lily pad. He doesn’t like it when I hop on him, though.
He’s my spinach streamer. He does like it when I pretend to eat him and then pop out huge muscles as I gravel, “I yam what I yam.”
He’s forty-one today.
Oh, hey, wait again. Not only did he increase his repertoire of wonders when he pulled off the swampy spinach soup thing.
He also recently did this:
He’s still working on mastering his unicycle, though.
Let’s give him ’til forty-two, ‘k?
Here’s the thing: I want to acknowledge his birthday because he hung my moon, bedecking it with spinach streamers. However, he will be bored worse than a presidential debate if all of y’all nice people just say “Happy birthday” in the comments. To keep his attention, howzabout your comment contains the food/dish/recipe in your life that you were skeptical about…until you ate it, at which point you were won over completely?
I’ll start: I have long been long-suffering and visibly tolerant when asked to eat soup with streamers of greens floating in it. I can do it. Don’t wanna. Until the red lentil business the other night.
….which is to say,
I love you beyond all green things that stick in my teeth, Byron.
May you enjoy your new Lego set–although Paco’s pretty sure you might need intensive assistance with it.
May you continue to enjoy reading Habibi–although I had to pull it out of its hiding spot in the closet and give it to you a month early when you got all excited about requesting it from the library.
May you enjoy developing your art–although you are relegated to sketching it out in the darkest unfinished corner of the basement. I still love this “Seattle” that you inked after visiting there a few years ago.
May you tamp down your annoyed reactions when faced with the fluctuating attitudes of our middle schooler–for she really does love you. Even though I sometimes hear that you squeezed her too hard when you kissed her goodnight. Maybe tone down your brute strength? Because she’s very, very fragile.
May you savor the gradual return of the light in the next few months. Until then,
may you enjoy my cold feet on your calves under the covers.
You are my human radiator. You make my every particle thrum with warmth.
You are my spinach-streamer juggler.
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