My dearest, beloved Brit -
It is your birthday. And as we cross this annual threshold where you catch up to me in age (and I therefore forfeit the ability to tell you to respect your elders for the next six months), I feel a little celebratory expression of love is in order here. I know. I profess my adoration for you all the time. But this year, I wanted to do something special. Like parasail over the city of San Francisco, naked except for hot pink legwarmers, with a long banner attached to my sail that reads “THE BRIT HAS THE CUTEST 29 YEAR OLD DIMPLES IN THE WHOLE WORLD.” But I looked into it, and that turned out to be a bit pricey…and let’s face it, the city of SF has seen enough ass in its time. (And besides, hot pink legwarmers are so last season.) I’ve decided, instead, to profess my love for you by broadcasting it to the world via this blog. And by ‘the world’, I mean ‘my five readers’ (three of which are my Mamacusa, my Abuelito, and one friend from high school). But it’s the thought that counts, right?
It’s been, what? 2.25 years now since we met up for dinner that one night? You remember? The one where we had a lovely meal, we enjoyed some intellectual conversation, then you drank a few too many Chimays, I drove you back to your house, and we made out for a while, until you passed out (as evidenced to me by your snoring into my cleavage)? Yeah. That was a great first date. You recovered nicely, though, when you made me that spectacular dinner of Butter lettuce, Persimmon, Feta, & Hazelnut Salad, followed by the Moroccan-Spiced Cornish Game Hens with Roasted Beet Mashed Potatoes and Yogurt-Mint Sauce, and, of course, the ever-so-unforgettable Winter-Spiced Molten Chocolate Lava Cake with Rum-Ginger Ice Cream. Oh, that Chocolate lava cake…with its warm, mushy, uncooked, chocolatey-licious center. Mmmmm. That’s when I decided to keep you. And I’m glad I did, because over time, I’ve realized that, not only can you cook consistently well, but you very likely have a mild case of undiagnosed narcolepsy…as I’ve witnessed you fall asleep while drinking wine, eating popcorn, and taking a wee. (Though, thankfully, not all at the same time.) So, in other words, since you clearly can’t help it, consider the narcoleptic first date episode long forgiven. (Feel free to make another chocolate molten lava cake though, I’ll forgive you all over again.)
After 2.25 years of dating, I can’t say we’re without our problems. Problems which have mostly to do with your inexplicable love of movie soundtracks, your dislike of coffee and tea (you’re an embarrassment to your Queen), and the fact that you live in a world where you seem to think that everything, short of driving down to LA to pick up some milk, will only take 20 minutes (that, with your sense of time, would probably take an estimated 30 minutes). There is also the issue of your forgetfulness. You’ve forgotten wallets in taxis. Laptops at the airport security check point (which you realized after about an hour of being in the air). Either you’re putting on a charade right now so that I’ll never think you responsible enough to care for our future children (in which case, wisely played!), or we really need to figure out how to create a system by which, when you step outside of three feet of your possessions, your nose will start blinking. (And if we succeed at this, I think we could patent it and retire with our earnings!) The next issue, that of your Gift of Gab, I am still kinda on the fence about. On the one hand, the fact that you can, as CruJones once put it “make conversation with a stuffed moosehead,” comes in handy. For instance, I can leave your side at a work party where you know no one and trust that you’ll entertain yourself (and likely others) sufficiently. On the other hand, for the love of GOD!! Do you ever come up for air?? (On the upside, you’ve only got a little ways to go before you can beat the world record holder for longest soliloquy.) Lastly, and perhaps most seriously, there is the matter of your level-headedness. You really are entirely too reasonable. This, I find, is particularly troubling. And if you weren’t so friggin’ reasonable, this would be the root of what would be most of our arguments. But since we don’t argue, we’ll never know. Allow me to offer a hypothetical example:
Me: OH MY GOD!!! Coño!! Did you see how that asshole just cut us off! I mean, who does he think he is? Some super rich famous person who is above the laws of traffic??
You: Well, maybe his pregnant wife is in the back seat and her water just broke and they need to get to the hospital urgently.
Me: Oh for fuck’s sake! MAYBE! But if so, he’s endangering the lives of many, including that of his unborn child, by driving like a maniac! What about that, huh? Huh?
You: You’re right. He probably could stand to be a little more careful.
See? That’s exactly the kind of thing you’d say to NOT get a rise out of me. And it’s just entirely too reasonable. I really wish you’d stop that. It’s annoying. I’m far more accustomed to the Cuban way of doing things. Like the time some guy cut my dad off on a single lane highway. My dad sped up just to cut him off while flipping him off with his left hand outside the driver’s side window. Then that guy cut my dad off again and flipped him off in a similar manner. Then my dad sped up again, cut him off, while flipping him off. With both middle fingers. While on a curve. That’s the kind of passionate angst I’m lookin’ for here. Is that too much to ask for? :)
Problems aside, I do think we make a good team. I find the fact that you are always warm, though a strong argument for the theory that you are not of this world but instead from the planet of Astrometria, quite convenient for me. Since my fingers, toes and nose are always freezing. (My Dad says our family comes from a long line of dogs and I think he might be onto something there.) The fact that you delight in culinary experimentation is a plus as well. Though my ass has gotten bigger since we started dating, so cancel out the benefit of your cooking. Though, speaking of my ass, you do like that, and you find the dance I have to do to squeeze it into every single godforsaken pair of pants I own absolutely adorable. So, bonus points for that. You tolerate my gas on the principle that I was raised in a family where farting wasn’t an embarrassment, it was a contest. Though, since you’re no stranger to dropping a silent-but-deadly bomb yourself, that cancels itself out as well. You scratch my back for me, even when I’m too lazy to walk the two steps needed to get the back scratcher that you bought me. More bonus points for you. (And thanks, by the way.)
What pushes you over the edge into the range of having so many points that you have unlimited rollover points (all of which carry over at the end of each month) is this: You’re the brand of good looking that comes from having outgrown an adolescence of chubbiness. This is the unaware-of-your-good-looks brand. (Which is the best kind.) You don't just tolerate what I do for a living, you love what I do, and ask me about it all the time out of genuine interest and curiousity. And, perhaps most importantly, you always understand when my job makes me late for plans we've made. You are thoughtful and generous, not just to the people within your circle of family and friends, but to strangers as well. You volunteer your time at food banks and homeless shelters, travel to places like Thailand to do tsunami relief work and Louisiana to help rebuild houses leveled by Hurricane Katrina. You believe, as I wholeheartedly do, in the power of one individual to make a strong impact, change the world in some way, make a difference. And you want to be that person. (Which I fully support. Just as long as it doesn’t interfere with our sex life.) Soooo, basically you’re like Mother Teresa. Only alive and much younger. And hotter. And with a penis.
And for some reason, you love me with the enthusiasm and loyalty of a proud, rabid soccer mom. Minus the rabies, the obnoxious blow horn, and the fluorescent signage that reads, “My daughter will kick your ASS!” Oh, and more like a boyfriend than a mom. But you know what I mean. You seem to think I’m great, which makes loving you waaaaaaaay more fun than loving Joey McIntyre from New Kids on the Block those long, difficult years ago. He never answered my many love letters, which makes the love we shared, Joey and I, the unrequited kind. Whereas with you…you always answer my love letters. And that makes me a very lucky girl. Ahhh, sweet, sweet requited love. Suck on THAT Joey!
So, happy 29th birthday, my dear Brit. I love you and look forward to celebrating many, many more birthdays with you. (If you don’t tire of scratching my back for me first. Or of having my cold hands shoved down your pants.) (Or of my obnoxiousness.)
Con amor, muchos besos, y un pincho en el culito,
La Cubana Gringa
PS – No, we cannot have the Grand Suite from Star Wars played at our wedding. Maybe at the reception. And only on the condition that I get “I'll be loving you (forever)”
and “Hanging Tough.”