When you’re 16 years old and you meet a cute guy you can get a little gaa-gaa over him. Puppy love, isn’t that what they call it? It never lasts, right? Wrong. Sometimes it does.
30 years ago I was 16 and met a cute guy, got a little gaa-gaa and guess what? I never got over him. I tried a few times, but I could never do it. I never will.
Today is the anniversary of the day we wed, 22 years ago. We had ups and downs, a couple kids, marriage, a couple more kids . . . life. We made a life, stitched it together with love and respect and a little bit of crazy (that stuff really sticks).
I cherish every moment, every memory, every dream we share. I guess I’m still a little gaa-gaa over him ❤️
When the night is long
and sleep eludes me
I think of you
until the solace
I drift within illusion
until I know you’re
by my side,
and I wake
to drink you in.
Your warmth enlivens me,
your taste lingers sweet
upon my lips,
awakening my senses,
stirring my soul,
leaving me longing
always, I rise
to pour myself
another cup . . .
My husband loves me. I know this because he brings me coffee every morning. Over the years, I have come to equate this sweet gesture with love. It may simply be nothing more than a desire to keep me from going into caffeine withdrawals, which he would then have to deal with he comes home after a hard days work, but I prefer to think of it as a sign of his undying love and affection for me.
There was this one day though . . .
I awoke to an empty nightstand. No hot cup of coffee awaiting me. I didn’t remember him waking me to say goodbye, have a good day, or getting my morning kiss. I kind of started to panic.
I figured he’d passed away in the kitchen.
I know, morbid, but I was really tired and hadn’t had any coffee yet, so I wasn’t thinking clearly. I knew I had to get up and go check his pulse and stuff before the kids got out of bed, but I was in mourning and having a hard time extracting myself from the cocoon of covers I was snuggled up in. I was thinking about who to call first and what I would wear to the funeral. It was a really awful way to begin a new day.
I pulled myself together as much as I could and tiptoed down the hallway to peek into the kitchen, his body wasn’t there. He must have breathed his last breath in the garage, or maybe even in the driveway. I checked. He was nowhere to be found. Obviously, he must have been kidnapped as he was pulling the motorcycle out of the garage.
I went back into the empty kitchen and put on a pot of coffee while I tried to remember the number for 911, but then my phone dinged. It was a text. I wondered if the police texted people these days, maybe they found him already and were letting me know.
I readied myself for whatever news awaited me and swiped the screen. The message was from him, or maybe his kidnappers, there was no way to know until I read it.
‘Just got to work – late. Was in a rush this morning. I love you. Make you some coffee when I get home.’
You know what? I was pissed. Then I was relieved. Then I was pissed. How could he put me through all that turmoil? I was prepared to go identify his body! After a couple cups of coffee I realized how silly I was being and I was actually pretty jazzed about getting a bonus cup of coffee when he got home.
That was the last time we stayed up late binging on Netflix.
I, Crystal Reneé Cook, being of sound(ish) mind, do hereby relinquish, surrender, and abnegate any and all duties, rights, and responsibilities previously afforded to and required of me in respect to the cooking duties of this establishment. In layman’s terms, I quit.
I no longer possess the skills necessary and needed to provide well balanced, properly prepared, edible meals that require any measure of high heat. This includes, but is not limited to, the cooktop, the oven, the toaster oven, the barbecue grill, and possibly the crock pot. I do retain continued access to the toaster, microwave, and the coffee maker until and if it is deemed I am no longer able to utilize them with any measure of safety in the manner for which they were designed.
I apologize for any inconveniences this may cause to my family, I am sure they knew this day would come.
Signed in sincerity and love,
Post script I am still the CEO of this family, I’m just not going to cook for you anymore.
When I opened my eyes the darkness blinded me. The black night encompassed me in its ebony veil. I could feel long icy fingers of fear wrapping round my quickening heart. The silence surrounding me pounded in my ears, but I wasn’t alone. I sensed a presence somewhere near. So near.
I was in pain, my muscles cramping as I lay there, no room to extend my legs for relief. I was cold. So cold. So many thoughts raced through my mind, how did I get here? What had happened? What would happen next?
Time passed slowly as my unanswered questions turned to thoughts of my children and I knew I had to survive, they needed me, but I could barely keep my eyes open. I was fading, fading into a dark, cold oblivion I could conceive of no escape from.
As a lay shivering, waiting for the inevitable, I heard something. A faint rumbling at first, but it grew steadily louder and louder and I realized I had to move. I had to save myself. Clarity found me and I realized I’d fought this battle before. That rumbling was the night beast and I’d beaten him before.
It took everything in me to turn myself over and poke him in the head. I took back my blankets, kicked the dog off the bed and as my body warmed, I drifted off to dream . . .
My husband is hot. Like seriously hot. I’m talking * tsss *, sizzling hot. (tsss is the sound of sizzling, if you weren’t sure, go back and read it as a sizzle sound, it’ll make more sense). I’m not necessarily complaining, well, actually, I guess I am.
It isn’t easy having a hot husband, especially at night. He makes me hot and I can’t just fall asleep like that. Even when I do, it wakes me up in the middle of the night, sometimes several times and then I’m so, so tired the next day.
Some of you may not understand for the simple reason that your husband isn’t as hot as mine. Honestly, you should count your blessings. You’d know exactly what I’m talking about if you spent just one night in our bed. Those of you who do happen to have hot husbands are probably nodding your heads in agreement and fanning yourselves just thinking about it.
I suppose it wouldn’t bother me so much if we lived in a cooler climate, but when it’s already 20 degrees warmer at night than you’d like it to be, sleeping next to a living fricking furnace exuding what I am certain has to be higher than normal body heat, it kind of sucks. I don’t know if I’m having pre-menopausal night sweats or if he’s laying too close to me some nights.
What did you think I was talking about?
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