It’s our anniversary on Monday, so we’re celebrating this weekend. Second year of marriage, ninth year together. I end up saying that a lot, because I don’t want to let those extra seven years go. He is bright, and clever, and determined, and witty, and charming, and spontaneous, and devoted, and stubborn, and rebellious, and ingenious, and honest, and passionate, and perceptive, and introspective, and adaptable, and trustworthy, and generous, and bold, and just the right amount of both cheeky and geeky for me.
And I’m kind of smitten with him.
Tonight I surprised him with a nice dinner, because he’s got a bunch of work to finish still later on this evening but I wanted us to be able to carve out a little couple time together (normally he does the cooking except for on major holidays, which suits me just fine, but every now and then I do make something. You know. So I don’t forget how the stove works). I realized partway into the preparation that the theme of the meal was pears and thyme. …Pairs. And Time. How appropriate. Sort of. …Okay, it’s a stretch, but it’s closer to romantic than asparagus and salt.
Plans for tomorrow revolve around cotton, in honour of the traditional gift for a second anniversary. Also around fresh baguette and cheeses. I’m sure I read that on the list somewhere. Second anniversary – cotton, bread and cheeses. Next year is leather, bread and cheeses. Could get interesting.
To summarize other news, Dr. Douchecanoe was still a douchecanoe while my husband was there, but much much less so. And I managed to get out of the appointment without an armful of new medications. Unfortunately I still have to keep seeing him, because the new therapist isn’t a doctor. On the plus side, the new therapist does seem good. She took some time at the first session to inquire about my diet, supplements, exercise, and other things that I find reassuring. She seems well informed (no new information, but at least I wasn’t telling her things she didn’t know. …See Dr. Douchecanoe above). She seems willing to explore various options for treatment. And when I mentioned my history with antidepressants, she gave me kind of a horrified/sympathetic look and comment rather than ignoring what I said (*cough* Dr Douchecanoe *cough*). I will admit that it was kind of relieving to have someone other than me, who seems vaguely competent, taking some responsibility for my treatment. It’s been stressful feeling like I need to carry it all on my own shoulders.
I think I’m going to continue seeing free therapist too, though. Can’t hurt, right?
And plus, if I add one or two more health professionals, I can form a baseball team.
Also, it was brought to my attention again today that I have a very difficult time getting angry. I just take too much personal responsibility for things, so if something goes wrong, I automatically assume there was something more I could have done to prevent it. Wrong leg got amputated? Should have double-checked and confirmed with the doctor one more time before going into surgery. Tree fell on my car? Should have foreseen that as a risk and parked somewhere else. There’s not a lot that I can’t claim an active role in somehow. Meteors, maybe. Granted, I did choose to live on Earth, but do you know how cold it is on Neptune this time of year? Plus, dude, I hear the commute is hell.
In other and completely unrelated news, apparently someone in my area was having a yard sale on “Friday.” They had a big old salmon-coloured sign on the main road.
Does that mean I need to be there by Wednesday if I want anything good? Are they trying to throw off the cops? Bending space-time? Do they not believe that Friday is real? I almost got out my cell phone to take a picture, but the light changed too soon so I drove away and missed out. …Okay, I almost got out my cell phone to take a picture, but the guy behind me gave a polite honk as I sat at the green light spaced out thinking about it, and I drove away and missed out. Still, classic blog of unnecessary quotation marks moment.
In a similar vein, this is pretty damn funny too.
