Daily Archives: November 19, 2011

Sucking Up


Today is the first miserable snowfall of the Minnesota season. I was going to go out to clear my car of snow before work and my Rockstar said, “Where are you going? I’m gonna do that.” I feel loved. XOXO

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Observation


While pretending to be engrossed in my book this morning, my eyes peek over the copy of My Lesbian Husband I hold in my hands, and observe my Rockstar.

The layers of his hair lay unkempt across his forehead, not the fiery color that it once was, but the paler shade of auburn that comes with age. There is no evidence of the atrocious haircut I gave him several months ago; the uneven cuts I made have grown out. Beneath his bangs, I catch a hint of the concentration wrinkle between his eyebrows that I tease him about, saying, “You’re doing it again!” This always makes him grin, and raise his eyebrows, attempting to dissolve the wrinkle.

“His nose really is so pretty,” I think. I know it’s one of his insecurities, but I’ve always admired larger noses on men, and it’s straight, so I don’t see the problem.

He hasn’t shaved today. The reddish bristle on his face surrounds the frown he unconsciously wears; I asked him once why he is always frowning, and his response was, “It’s what 40 hours of working with dumbasses does to me. I have a sad face every day at work.” I wonder now if I frown when I’m concentrating as he does.

The freckles on his arms are still apparent, even in this dim light. I look at his hands, and his fingers, and I think back to  the first time I really noticed them. He was playing Metallica for me, on his old ESP guitar, and I remember thnking that his fingers were SO different from my husband’s. I think, too, about the time he told me he must sleep with his hands covered; luckily, I broke him of this habit somewhat, because now he will grab my hand when we drift off to sleep.

The slight rocking of his chair looks awkward, especially since his leg is slung over the arm, sticking straight out like a cat’s when you hold one under the armpits. “His perfect perfect feet are just to nice to belong to a man,” I think to myself. They haven’t even looked strange when he’s let me paint his toenails in the past. He is very proud of his feet- one time, he even mentioned the fact that he “has perfect toes”, and how my are “short and funky”. I agreed with him. He doesn’t even have hairy toes as so many men do, which only makes them that much more lovely.

“Son of a bitch!” tumbles out of his mouth, breaking my reverie. He grins at me, and I grin back. Watching my Rockstar play XBOX is very entertaining.

P.S. Oddly enough, when we first started dating, I didn’t find him all that attractive. How things change…

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