I love my husband very much.
And I miss him while he’s away.
And I often worry about what in the world I’d do if anything ever happened to Greg.
(FYI, I worry because it’s useful and productive. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different. If you stop, you’ll be letting down millenia of mothers who’ve upheld that fine tradition. And you do NOT want to be the weak link. That’s kind of like not keeping the chain letter going, and we all know what happens then. In short: Fear; it’s what’s for dinner.)
See, I have five kids, and, well, even though I’m a creative writer, I can’t begin to figure out how to spin the number 5 (FIVE!) on a Match.com or eHarmony profile. Like, do I say “more than 2 kids?” How about “less than 6?” I mean, really. Which is less likely to send men screaming from their computers? It’s a conundrum, I tell you.
And I’m also telling you: Greg should come home soon.
I have a reason that’s even more compelling than INeedYouToGetYourButtBackHere ‘CauseI’mGoingALittleSillyInMyHead and IfIHaveToDefrostTheFridgeA3rdTime I’mAfraidIMightGetAConcussion FromBeatingMyHeadOnTheWall.
And my brand, new, shiny, compelling reason is this, the thing I saw advertised in our hometown over the weekend:
That’s a special if I ever did see one.
Large cowboy. $10.
Now, I’m not saying that Greg can be replaced.
I’m just saying that finding a stand-in just got a WHOOOLLLE lot easier.
P.S. Thank you, Papa Murphy’s Pizza, for this. And for staring at me out the window while I stopped my car to take this shot. And for not calling the fuzz while I squatted on your sidewalk with my camera and made you feel weird. And for letting me come in and try to tell you that you had sandwich-board GOLD out there, which you didn’t understand. But, still, you let me TRY, which was sweet.
Papa Murphy’s, you always have the best deals in town, but, MAN! (Literally.) You outdid yourselves this time. Congrats, and many happy returns. I love you.