Year 13: Lace and Fur

Sooooo ... On September 23, 2000, the guy I'd been dating took me out to a fancy dinner in Malibu and asked me to the beach afterwards. I thought, "Sweet. We're gonna make out under the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. This will be legendary." Although we did make it to the beach, the Santa Monica Pier and its Ferris wheel in view behind us, we did not make out. Which is a shame because I had a smokin' body covered by an awesome dress that I can't even fit over my head anymore.

How things change.

Though we didn't act indecent in public, this guy -- let's call him GareBear because that's his name around these parts -- he pulled out a little velvet box and got sand on his knee and said those magical words, most of which I can't remember. I do know that the evening ended with a "Yes! Yes! Yes!" I will leave that to your imagination.

Yay! We're engaged! Now what ...?

His folks were visiting from O Canada. They said, "We're not leaving your house until you get married." Hence, we planned a wedding in less than a month (in fact, if you want to be specific, we planned a wedding in eight days. Oh yes we DID). The Little Brown Church of the Valley, in Studio City, California -- where Ronald Reagan wed his Nancy -- could squeeze us in on a Saturday at 5 p.m. We were the 22,002nd couple to be married there. Cool.

So this happened:

Married. Now he's stuck.

Then we danced. (What I would give to have that body back.)

Fast forward thirteen years. We live in a different country, GareBear's still in the same (confounded) film industry, and we have multiplied. NO, we did not get married because we were knocked up. Do the math. Our first child together was born 13 months after we got married. Sure, we didn't waste time. My ovaries had an expiry date.

Thirteen years is a long time to put up with someone else's shit. We haven't taken pictures of the less savory times, when we were about to kill one another or when one half of the relationship has slept on the couch for a few nights (in a row) or when I'm in the kitchen raging about the fact that this family IS SO LAZY and "I swear to God I am going to just up and leave one day and then you'll be sorry" or when the ONLY THING I ever talk about is The Book and I really don't listen much to what anyone else is talking about, especially if it's not about The Book and when GareBear has too many burritos and the house becomes a hazardous waste site or when I throw a huge temper tantrum because I HATE COOKING and everyone always wants stupid food or when I refuse to get out of bed because "what's the point."

Thing is, we're still here. And we still have to try to not kill each other, etc., but the COOL part is, we make each other giggle. Did you know that in the olden days -- no, NOT when I was a kid -- anniversary gifts followed a traditional list:

Being the smart-asses that we are, we don't take this crap too seriously. In fact, most anniversaries we sort of just pat each other on the head and say, "Good job on surviving another year, yo. See you after soccer practice/piano/work/the dentist." 

In Year 11, the suggested gift is STEEL. So, GareBear got me steel wool. Believe it or not, I was stoked. Steel wool cleans EVERYTHING. As we have conquered Year 13 (because technically, an anniversary marks the 13th year, which is the end of that year and the birth of the next year), the traditional gift is LACE and FUR. So THIS is what I found waiting on my chair this morning:

And I was all like, "Really, GareBear? Lingerie? Have you SEEN me naked lately? No. You have not. And I have eaten A LOT of cookies this year." Okay, okay, he bought me lingerie. Suck it up, Princess.

So I open the box. And inside, I find:

FUR

It's a T-SHIRT. OH, I am SO wearing this out in public. Come on, GareBear. LET'S GO OUT FOR DINNER.

And this:

LACE

Pretty little bow for my hairs.

GareBear? 

NAILED IT.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to the dude who my kids call Dad, who fills my bed with farts, and who makes me giggle at least once a week. I'm sorry I am so mean to you, especially when you have a Man Cold. I will try to be less mean as we begin Day 1 of Year 14. But can we PLEASE go out for dinner tonight, even if it's cheeseburgers? I don't waaaaaaaaanna cook dinner.

I love your face, Captain McFarty Pants.

XOXO

P.S. I WORE FUR OUT IN PUBLIC. Here's proof (thanks for the picture, Chanel!):

I rocked that lion's FACE off.

 As you were.