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Thursday, December 2, 2010

I Live...

I live with a farmer. He farms in the backyard of my track home and makes tomatoe and chilly plants grow from the ground. Sometimes I think he's related to Old Mc'Donald. You know the one who had a farm? Minus the cows and chickens. And the eee-aaa-eee-aaa-ooo's.

I live with a doctor. He digs out a stethoscope from his days in medical training and gently places it on my back and heart when I'm having a hypochondriatic day and think I'm dying from lung cancer. Or an ulcer. Then he'll put it on my belly and say he can't wait to hear a baby in there one day.

I live with an aspiring songwriter. He sings made up, out of key songs out loud that say things like "I don't know why you're mad at me right now" and "Don't you know that all I ever do is love you" and "I'm sorry I didn't pick up my shoes". Strangely the artist in him emerges only when I'm grumpy about something he did. Or didn't do.

I live, because among so many amazing gifts God has given me, God gave me him. My husband, my cuddler, my best friend, my caretaker, my Netflix watcher partner, my love and my main squeeze for life.

Dear Mario, even though I couldn't find the veggie pictures from the backyard farm for this post and I called you at work three times to find out where you saved them and you didn't answer and it made me slightly upset and I know I'll probably hear an apology song later, I still love you. And I always will! 

PS: I think my lung hurts again.
Love you,


  1. I might be related to Mario. Lol I serenade my dogs with impromptu songs about what I'm doing in the house. I'm sure the neighbors LOVE it ;) "there goes that weirdo again...singing bout laundry and dirty dishes!" ;)


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