a note from Mrs. Dwight Yoakam
There is very little that bugs me about my husband, Hockey God. (Yes, he claims he’s on sabbatical.) (“There’s no crying in baseball!” — Tom Hanks in “A League of Their Own”) (Yeah, whatever, Mr. I’m-So-Busy, Mr. Sabbatical.)
Anyway. He rocks. He’s a great cook, father, lover, husband and gardener. He pretty much always gives me my way, even when I don’t cry. (“There is crying in marriage.” — Wacky Mommy) He watches “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “White Christmas,” “North by Northwest,” “Vertigo” and “Rear Window” with me, over and over and over. (Is there anything sexier than Grace Kelly telling Jimmy Stewart, “Preview of coming attractions…”? No, there is not.)
He’s buying me a new house because I’ve been ready to go for a long time now.
But one thing about him drives me nuts. OK, two. 1) He can’t stand when I talk during movies, but hello, sometimes I need to ask him what’s happening with the plot, especially if it’s one of those suspense/intrigue type of movies and 2) He thinks he knows the words to Dwight Yoakam’s “Guitars, Cadillacs” and he just doesn’t. Also he thinks he can sing like Dwight (“He sings like Fozzy Bear, it’s not that hard!”) and he just can’t.
Other than that, he’s perfect.
Happy Valentine’s Day, lover. Here’s to many more.
, 
.
That’s funny. :D
February 9th, 2010 | #