For Hubster & The Rest of You Voyeurs Who Read It.

Dear One,

I'm so sorry that you're an invalid right now. The sniffles, the aches, the gleben are all conspiring to make you feel like crap-o-la. I hope you feel better soon, especially because of the moratorium on kissing. Not cool.

I know this weekend had it's frustrating points. There was the whole "having to run Christmas errands all day Saturday" thing. There was the "pulling the paint tape off except it WOULDN'T COME OFF" bit yesterday. There was the ongoing "WHY, GOD, WHY?" nature of the cabinet work. But you have been a total peach about most of it. Sure, you have to rail and be mad about it, but once it's out of your system, your resilience is amazing. Plus you haven't divorced me yet, so something's working out in my favor somewhere and I HOPE IT KEEPS WORKING. (*looks heavenward, crosses fingers*)

I guess I'm saying that I love you. I love your giddy mastery of using power tools and looking cool whilst doing it. I love your jokes. I love that you had to bring the cat to the new house because you've been dying to do it for a week and "IT'S HER HOUSE, TOO!" I love that you talk me down from the ledge when I'm looking to throw myself headlong into misery and dramatic WOE-OH-WOE speeches instead of stepping back and realizing I can do this. It's been nice to have your support, even if it is your income combined with mine that put us in this situation anyway. (Kidding!)

Okay, as if by Providence, "Fix You" just came up on iTUNES, so I'll just play that for you when you get home. And maybe there'll be some chicken soup or orange juice or some of those ridiculous candies/"supplements" you love so much. Oh, and cold-virus communicability be DARNED, I'm stealing a smooch.

Yours,
E