Call Me Mrs. Jones

I’ve made it clear that I love my husband.  And I do.  But now.  I really love him.

You should’ve seen it.

We’re in the kitchen last night, cooking a late dinner.  A late late dinner.  Like, 9:00 late.  I know.  But sometimes it’s just like that.  It’s called kids.  And dogs.  And maybe a big, late tortellini lunch.  That was scrumptious and alfredo-y and mmm mmm good.  With garlic bread.

What was I saying?  Oh, right.

So we’re in the kitchen last night, cooking a late dinner, when a moth flitters by and goes into one of those spaztastic freakouts that moths have, on the wall, above the stove.  It was shooting around, jumping and dodging that invisible bat that must be chasing it when all of a sudden BAM!

My husband, out of nowhere, in one, swift, gallant movement, pinned the moth to the wall with the tip of a pearing knife.  By its wing.

MeDood.  That was like Indiana Jones in real life.

ChrisWhat?  Heh heh.  Nah.

MeNo, seriously.  You’re like Indiana Jones!

ChrisHeh heh.

*head begins to inflate*

Me:  That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen you do.

*head is getting bigger*

ChrisHeh heh.

MeJust call me Mrs. Jones!

ChrisHeh heh.

*Man your stations, Men!*

He vacuums, he cooks, he wrestles the kids, he plays ball with the dogs, he’s a tattooed Hoss of a man and I love every single molecule of him, but that?!

Wuz seksi.


One response to “Call Me Mrs. Jones

  1. Hey, I had my semi-automatic rifle and shells on the kitchen counter just two nights ago in readiness to annihilate a bear (or could have been a mountain lion) that was in the woods behind my barn and making my horse VERY nervous. Does that make me seksi, too?

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