I’m sitting in the Northwest Arkansas Airport waiting for my indefinitely delayed flight to Newark via Chicago to get here and pick me up, wondering if it’s okay to eat chicken salad for breakfast, even in an airport, or whether that question is entirely voided by the more urgent question of whether it’s okay to eat airport chicken salad at all—and hoping that the answer is, at least in this case, yes, since there’s no going back.
Since I’m about to go home for a week and answer questions about my boyfriend—who, though not “new” anymore, neither in spirit nor in fact, is still kind of a novelty to sillygirl84, who lives in London now, and New Zealand before that, neither of which is remotely near Arkansas, which has thus hindered the epic meeting of the minds that shall inevitably occur someday, but not today, since D has to stay here and work—I thought I’d take the time to sing his praises to the world at large. And since, when with my family, I’m likely to talk about all the efforts I’ve made in the ongoing process of Moving In Together, like how my endurance for college football Saturdays is way up, even if my understanding of the sport has stalled somewhere around This Team Wants To Go This Way, That Team Wants To Stop Them, or how I’m developing a passion for late-night domino matches, or how I almost always remember to feed D’s cat before leaving the house for the day, I’ll take the time now to highlight some of the heroic efforts D himself is making toward our domestic happiness—like the totally awesome DVD shelves he made for the living room, and the life-changing chili he made for dinner last night, and his infinite patience with my utterly perverse CSI/Law & Order addiction. I particularly enjoy the Learning Moments, such as this:
Me: [trying on a potential outfit for work] Do you think I can wear these boots with this skirt?
D: I do not even understand the nature of that question.
D: [calling from downstairs bathroom] Baby, do we have any more hand soap in here?
Me: There should be some in that box under the sink.
D: I don’t see any…
Me: Really? I thought I saw some in there the other day.
D: Wait, what’s a “cleansing bar”?
D: Check. “Cleansing bar” equals “soap.”
But it’s not just me who thinks D is the bomb. He was recently featured in the culture blog of the Arkansas Times, so you can see for yourself how much my baby rocks.
P.S. I took the mug shot. That’s my fault.