Why I Love My Husband - Volume 8,471

First, I have to apologize to the Blogstalkers. This week we're supposed to document a typical day in our lives, and I'm kinda unable to have a typical day. But I'll come up with something by the end of the week, I think.

So anyway, we're almost done moving all the crap out of the old house and into the new house. We have until November 14th to be all the way out, so we're in good shape, other than the boxes all over the new house waiting to be unpacked. I even moved the dirty laundry out of the old house, by stuffing it into six suitcases. By the way, did I tell you that I moved dirty dishes from my old sink so I could wash them in my new dishwasher? I'm so white trash.

I'm almost caught up with all of the laundry now. Really not my fault I got so behind, either - the washer and dryer got moved to the new house before I had all the laundry done. And I still haven't told you the story of Moving Day, and I swear I will. (Of course, now that I've built it up to be some awesome story you're going to be disappointed when I finally tell it. Oh, well.)

Yesterday I was in the basement doing laundry, and when I picked a pair of R's socks up off the floor, I found a spider as big as my head. Seriously. It was like one of those giant killer rainforest spiders that drop on your head when you're walking through the jungle, and, while you're unconcious from the impact, suck your brain out though your ear. (I have some really fucked up dreams.)

Not only does my husband remove freaky spiders from my house very delicately without killing them (which obviously requires more effort and patience on his part, since just squishing them would be so much faster), but he never ever complains about what a pain in the ass it is for him to locate an empty jar, (or some other method for the humane removal of unwanted spiders) coax the critter inside, and then release it into the wild where it belongs - even if it's -17 degrees outside.

Y'know what, though? It just occurred to me that I don't ever actually follow him when he takes the spider outside, so for all I know he could be pulvarizing them as soon as he leaves the room, but if that's the case, at least the man goes through the motions and allows me to believe that he's really putting them outside. And that's almost as good.

Sure, it would be easier to just smack it with a rolled-up magazine and be done with it, but I truly believe that when you kill a bug, three more will come to the funeral, like when you pluck a grey hair and three more pop up in its place. R lives with my hang-ups every day.

So the man's my silly English kuh-niggit in shining armor, for sure. And in addition to The Medal of Honor for Humane Spider Rescue in the Face of Extreme Peril, R can also boast the dubious honor of being my very favorite photographer. He never bats an eye, no matter how ridiculous a picture I want for my blog. He's my own personal Annie Liebovitz, for cryin' out loud.

Look how he so lovingly captured my virgin Spotted Dick experience. (Note: We added vanilla custard per Yorkie's suggestion.)








Yorkie, your Dick was delicious.