Venus, Mars and Big Foot

He likes pizzas with jalapenos, French’s bright yellow mustard, and chili paste.  I like pizzas with cheese and green peppers and red onions.

He puts heavy whipping cream on Cocoa Pebbles.  I like skim milk on granola.

I like to have all of my ducks in order.  I like my ducks to be in a single-file, straight line, and I want them to all be clutching a schedule, a checklist, and a dinner menu under their wings.  He doesn’t care if his ducks are all in the same COUNTY.  He can have ducks scattered everywhere, and he will shoot them, no matter what formation they waddle in.  He has no idea what a checklist even is.

He’s open to the idea that Big Foot lives in the wilderness areas of Washington state.  I’m only open to the idea of FAKE, FAKE, FAKE!

I like nice, quiet vehicles.  I want my vehicle to ride smoothly, have perfectly-controlled temperature settings, and a cup holder for my Starbucks drink.  He wants his vehicle to be loud.  And loud.  And also loud.  He is fond of saying that “Loud pipes save lives.”  Big tires with thick tread overrule air conditioning every day of the week.

If I have grilled meat, it needs to be boneless.  And gray.  I don’t like to find pink surprises when I cut into it.  He will chew on bones, get grease on his chin, and eat anything that has had the ice melted off of it by the grill.

I am the Laundry Nazi, who fights stains with a passion and knows which clothes can be thrown in the dryer, and which clothes need to be hung up to dry, and which clothes need Woolite over Tide.  He has been in our laundry room twice this year, to use the sink to wash mud off of his hands.  He will smell a pair of jeans to determine whether they can be worn again, and he’ll wear them again anyway, even if they REEK.

He likes anything that explodes with violence and force and fire.  I like things that stay in their original shapes.

He sees small parallel parking spaces as a challenge that must be met.  He will deliberately choose the smallest space possible, just to prove that he can slam the Suburban into it.  I need three consecutive open spots before I even REMOTELY CONSIDER wiggling into it.

I call that Parallel Parking.  He swears it’s NOT Parallel Parking, and that it is a total waste of something that could be turned into a grand competition.

I like to sit on the sofa and quietly pet a cat’s back while I read a book.  He likes to put socks over cats’ heads, balls of Scotch tape the size of apples on their backs, and he’ll wrestle them on the floor until he’s bleeding.

He believes in UFOs.  I believe that ET was a terrific FICTIONAL movie.

He will chew whole habanero peppers up and swallow them down.  I steer my cart in the opposite direction of habaneros at the grocery store, because just walking next to them makes me hurt.

He once ate a full HALF CUP of wasabi paste on his Chinese dinner.  It killed him, but he did it, and he lived to brag about it.  I once SMELLED wasabi, and I backed off, shaking my head like a bull at the rodeo.  I also lived to tell about MY experience, but he claims that I don’t get the credit that he gets for my wasabi encounter.

He loves Good Hearted Woman and I’m a Ramblin’ Man and Luckenbach, Texas and Back in Black and TNT and Round and Round, but thinks Delta Dawn is whack that makes his ears bleed out.  I know all the words to Delta Dawn, and it makes me smile.

Even with all of these differences between us, I still took a little stroll down an aisle with my dad on July 1st, sixteen years ago.  HE was waiting for me at the end of that aisle.

It was an arranged marriage; I was six.

Happy anniversary, Hubs.

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