Bless P’s heart. When I crawled out of bed and staggered to the kitchen this morning, he had already left for work, but beside the coffeemaker (where he knew I’d see them first thing) were two cards; one addressed to “Der Mama” in P’s distinctive scrawl, and the other printed with “Mama” in Cliffie-letters. Atop the envelopes lay a red rose. Knowing full well that I love flowers but am nauseated by sappy cards, both were funny, as his choices are always. Five years today and although I make jokes about choosing Valentine’s Day for our wedding day so he wouldn’t forget our anniversary, he wouldn’t no matter what day we’d chosen. Never forgets my birthday, or even Canada Day, and has to be told–not once, either–not to borrow money to buy something very expensive just because I want it. When he says, “Northern Lis-Angel Pwrincess”, he really means it. He certainly has the ability to be a miserable bastard when he wants, but that’s okay because I can be a poison bitch when it suits me. Neither of us chooses to be our worst, though, and that’s the bit that matters. He’s a messy, disorganised procrastinator who couldn’t see dirt if it jumped up and bit him on the arse and thinks a perfect day is one that he can spend in his bathrobe. I’m logical and organised, about some things even obsessive, and need to “accomplish” something each day or it’s a failure, but somehow it works. Five years and I still think his weird little habits are funny, even leaving socks beside his desk and reading obituaries of people he doesn’t know. I am good at finding his stuff, too, because all I have to do is think where I would’ve put it, then look in the opposite direction. He’s a good guy and I did well to snag him even if he does think he’s the one who did the “capturing”.

There is, as always, a sandwich for my lunch, in the fridge on my special little “pwrincess plate” because he knows that otherwise I’d survive on coffee, Reese’s Pieces and cheese popcorn any time he’s not here.