Monday, September 15, 2008


To put it lightly, Dave is less than satisfied with the picture he feels I've painted of him on my blog. He maintains that it appears he spends his life sleeping, snoring, lecturing me, refusing to cuddle, and effectively impersonating an all-around giant stick in the mud. This has been communicated through a few conversations on the subject as well as many grumpy sighs and large amounts of huffing after each new thoughtful musing is birthed onto my personal electronic journal forum (i.e. a new post appears). Last night, for instance, he was grumbling grouchily under his breath about what people that don't know him must think, and why couldn't I please once in a while write something about how he makes the bed every day or takes Pixie on millions of pee pee walks or scratches my back in church til my leg thumps. After initially defensively threatening to make this a private blog and not invite him to read it in a stand against communist-style censorship, I decided instead to create a post detailing a much lovelier side to my sleepy snorey sweetie.

This is a story from Saturday night. I came home from work and my feet were KILLING me. I hadn't sat down in nine hours. My poor little tootsies were throbbing and no amount of laying flat on my back was fixing it. I came in the door moaning and maybe whining a teensy. I laid on the couch and emitted feeble groans. Dave was watching his football games. Even so, he ever-so-kindly hastened to fetch some Advil, a towel, some Bath and Body Works lotion, and offered up his supreme massaging skills. He worked on the aching heels and toes until his own hands cramped up. And, I KID YOU NOT, he healed them. I am not joking. I have never experienced anything like it. The pain disappeared. He rubbed the misery right out of them. Now that is talent. And generosity. I wanted to marry him all over again, right then and there, on my back on the couch, with my newly euphoric (and Coconut-Lime-Verbena-scented) extremities swinging in newly pain-free abandon, over the arm of the sofa.

True story.

So what do you think of Dave now?? I bet you're speaking of him in hushed tones, murmuring acronyms and phrases like BHE (Best Husband Ever) and Mr. Magic Hands.


Nicole said...

That is a lovely story, but... I could never refer to Dave as the BHE since I am blissfully married to Mr. Dewey.

Don't husbands realize that sweet, loving stories about them just aren't as funny as the quirky ones? It's not that we wish to portray them as anything less than the fantastic men they are... it's just that we want to share the humerous side of being married to these unique (lovable) guys.

I've got your back, Jessica. :)

M-A said...

You are so funny. I have experienced similar huffs and puffs from my other half, and have even had a few phone calls from my mother telling me "you should be nicer" and "be careful, I'm sure his mother reads the blog..." What people forget is that aside from being an electronic journal, a blog is a a form of free therapy. I need to remember to say more positive things about my fam too I suppose...

Emalei said...

I have to beg for a mere backscratch on the couch! You are a lucky girl!

Julie and Todd said...

I'm just jealous.