It’s difficult to describe this guy.
On the one hand, He’s hard. He’s a former Gulf War infantry marine. Gruff. Pretty high tolerance for pain. He once pulled out his own tooth because he couldn’t see the surgeon ’till after the weekend.
No really. That happened.
When He’s not doing undecipherable tech stuff, He likes to hunt deer, play poker and build things, and He’d happily live in a cabin for the rest of His life eating deer jerky as long as it sat at the top of a triple diamond ski run and He could have his favorite Scotch delivered.
He hates cowardice above most things and values courage over most other things. But decency, honesty, loyalty — they all mean something to Him.
Which is why – obviously – he gets me. I am So. All. That.
He’d also like to die someday wrestling a grizzly.
(That’s a minor detail, but I think it’s relevant, so I’ll include it.)
So that is why it is bizarre that He wasn’t born with some weird line separating the two halves of His face like Tommy Lee Jones. ‘Cause the thing is – and believe me it pains me to say this – he’s soft.
He likes gardens. He really likes them. Not just cause of Her either.
He reads stupid amounts of books that weigh more than I do. Books on religion, and classical music and the freaking Hudson River School for Pete’s sake.
He might drink Scotch but He knows wine and something called sherry. And he misses his kids when they leave like he’s got apron strings tied to his little baby-girl heart.
This thing with the Boy in North Dakota….geez don’t get me started. Evidently Christmas will never be the same and we can’t camp in the same places cause that’s where the kids used to camp and the house is so big now…and yada yada yada.
(Just need to add that She has no problem camping in the same places, or celebrating Christmas and She seems to like the way the house is so big now judging from how fast She took over the Boy’s room and made it Her office.)
He also – and I might add this reflects on HIM not me – talks baby-talk to me and pretty much gives me anything I want when She’s not around.
So that brings me to the piano.
He taught himself. Yep, back when He was 19 in a foreign country where He should have been doing 19-year-old things, He was sitting in front of an out-of-tune upright in a back room of the USO banging out “Sister Christian” and pretty much everything that Elton John had written to that point (which is all, according to Him, he ever should have written).
What a dork.
And He’s been playing ever since. Except it veered toward Chopin and Rachmaniov (cause THAT makes sense), and now flips between Bread and Bach.
From what I gather during more heated discussions (damn it’s good to be a dog), He’s been playing non-stop for 25 years. That’s a long time – I’ll give Her that – but at least half of it was on an electric piano with headphones.
You could still hear the key-beating, She says.
Well anyway. There’s no getting away now. Her entire living room has been filled with a massive grand piano and that means All Piano. All. The. Time.
He’s in love. Like crazy in love. I don’t know about Her, but He never touched me like He touches that piano.
Will they make it through this marital hiccup, you ask? Will the wood ever get stacked, or the second pergola built?
More importantly, will I ever get my ball thrown? THESE QUESTIONS MUST BE ANSWERED.
Particularly the last one
Edge of your seat stuff. Stay tuned.