In the car this morning:
Max: "Forty- THREE! Oh my goodness, that's a long long time. That's HEAPS of years. And he's still alive! Wow. *Shakes head* Forty three."
It's Dave's birthday. I am taking him to a surprise destination for dinner tonight, told him to dress sharp, as it's a very top-notch restaurant. I can't wait ... I drove there this morning, to find out where to park. And read the menu on the door .... full of fancy stuff, like pigs cheeks and trotters encased in pastry! This is the best restaurant in the area we live, and neither of us have ever been to it. As I drove off I accidentally did a big burnout on the fricken' gravel. What an idiot. This morning he opened up his pressies, laughing and smiling that we all got up at a God-forsaken time to celebrate with him. Rocco bought him a holder for the remote controls, Dave laughed and laughed. One of Dave's pet hates of all time is getting all comfy and then Rocco has put the remote somewhere. If he can't find it, even I get a little scared - and usually I am the scary one.
Some relationships seem so much more easier and fluid than ours. I shouldn't compare, but you know how you see those old people and they're all like, "We're soul mates! Not one cross word in sixty years." And I'm on the couch looking at Dave thinking, Soul mates Pffffft. Not one cross word in, ooooh, 40 minutes!
And I fantasize about never sharing the bed again and his big stupid booming voice and the way he walks in the house when I'm trying to write, wanting to talk and talk because he has a spare ten minutes and I have to say "DAVE! You know when I ring you and you're on top of a roof or some shit and you can't talk?? Well, I'm on a roof, mate. I'm on a frickin' roof."
But then ..... he is the guy who tamed the untamable. Who got just as excited as me, in the beginning of our relationship nine years ago, when I would buy tins of soup and heat them up - with toast! Look ... I made dinner! Dave is hands down the most grounding influence I have ever had in my life. Everybody needs a Dave. He laughs at my neurotica, taught me to love long walks and exercise, and wholesome food. Made me stop wearing black every day of my life. He turned to me once in those early days of dating, and said, "I'm going to marry you one day. And build you your own house to write in."
And he did! He says things and DOES them.
Some people are so shameless in their assumption he is going to get sick again, that even he notices. They get this slapped-arse look on their face and say, "And how's Dave? Tsk tsk." And we say he's fine but they STILL HAVE THE SLAPPED ARSE FACE. Like, it's unspoken that he's in remission for now, but relapse is just around the corner. I want to punch them, but Dave just laughs about it. We won't tell anyone, anyway. If I have to parade Dave's dead corpse around town like in Weekend at Bernies, and get asked by people "How ARE you Dave?" And I'd make his hand wave and parrot behind him "I'm fine! Nothing to see here, people."
But, luckily I don't have to lug my husbands rotting dead body around town pretending to all the naysayers that he's ok ... because today, he really is ok. And we argued for a week straight but now we're not and we are celebrating the birthday we didn't really know he'd get to see with a shwanky plate of steaming pigs trotters.