My Beloved Rotten Snake Corpse

I think I need to explain….

Not that anyone has said anything….But…

My husband is wonderful.  I know that my joke right now is to call him a rotten snake corpse (yesterday, I think I called him a decayed snake corpse…all the same thing in my opinion).  However, in the end, he’s my wonderful and amazing rotten snake corpse.

No, I’m not being sarcastic.  Okay, you got me.  I’m being quite sarcastic because I am calling him by this horrible nickname.  And it is a horrible nickname…that I have yet to call him to his face.  And for his family members who might be reading this, please feel free NOT to call him this unless you are looking for some serious blackmail and, then, if that’s the case, go for it because I have nothing to give.

Pat, my husband, my beloved [rotten snake corpse] truly is amazing.  At this moment, he’s at Starbucks with one of my students, answering questions so the young man can write a paper for me.  Pat, who is quiet and reserved, has taken time out of a congested and exhausting schedule to do this for someone he has never met and will likely never really see in the future.

Pat, who when our adopted-pseudo-daughter Lauren called, all miserable and desperate because something terrible happened, went to visit her and offer her comfort because she needed someone who would listen and wouldn’t judge and would drop the world to ensure that she was going to be fine thirty minutes later.

Pat, who literally swept me off my feet and held me out a second story window (take that princesses!  My Prince Charming is psycho but didn’t kill me…Hans didn’t even do that for Anna!).  My first nickname for him was hubsche bubchen which basically means adorable little boy…if I have the spelling right.  Maybe it really means rotten snake corpse in some weird dialect of Ewok.  I don’t know.  Don’t care.  Of course, I called him this after I had accused him of having a weeny-boy-name (I won’t spill the beans on his first name…but it’s the name of a weeny-boy).  Did I even spell weeny-boy correctly?

We’ve been together for over twenty years, married for fifteen of those.  We’ve gone through terrible experiences that fractured our relationship and shattered us.  However, we re-knit those pieces, added on some serious amounts of Gorilla Glue, stuck on a ton of Band-aids, and are still limping along together.  We’ve also shared incredible laughter and joy together.  We own half a mountain but I feel like we rule a world.

Sometimes, I still feel like kicking him out of the bed, maybe tucking him under so that I know he’s close but not so much so that his frustrating idiosyncrasies make me want to rip my face off.  At the same time, thanks to frequent moving as an Army-Brat, I have no place that I really call home.  So, as I wrote yesterday, home is in the arch of his arms.

He isn’t romantic, but he gave me a heart that I wear around my neck and which is nestled in the hoop of my throat.  He doesn’t wear his wedding band, but I have his commitment to me, to us which has more value than any ring sold in any store.  So I don’t have Edward from Twilight.  Edward who might shower me with riches but will also stalk me and watch me while I sleep.

I don’t need Edward.  I was stalked once.  No thank you.  I don’t need anyone telling me that “No matter where I do, I will find you.”  Daniel Day-Lewis can say that all he wants and it sounds romantic.  Of course, it helps that he is incredibly good looking.  But when a young man told me that twenty-one years ago, it wasn’t charming.  

It was alarming.

That’s all right.  Immediately after I started hiding from stalker-boy, I met my hubsche bubchen.  I have Pat and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

But pass me the ear plugs.  This one snores.

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