Laura’s House
The first time I really talked to her, we had a disagreement. I supervised the housekeeping staff of a nursing home, and she was the Dietary Manager. There was a long, noticeable mark on the dining room floor that she was convinced was made by my floor technician and the machine that scrubbed the floors. I was equally convinced that it had probably been made by her staff, with a mop. We stayed civil, but both were adamant. That was twelve years ago and neither of us has ever conceded defeat. It must be love. The discussion led me to look her up on social media. Yes. I stalked her. She was recently separated, had two grown sons and two adopted daughters, lived next door to her mom and had a sly smile that disguised a stubborn streak. One of the daughters’ names mentioned in the many photos I painstakingly caroused had the curious name of “Bubbles”. I was amused. I decided to use it as an ice breaker the next time I had the opportunity to talk to her.
Laura Gail and her friend Linda were sitting in the courtyard partaking of contaminated air not very much later that week, so I took it upon myself to join them. I listened to them make small talk until I found my opening.
“What about ‘Bubbles’ I asked. What’s the story there?” I asked, innocently.
“Well that’s a long story…” and she began to weave the story of her second husband’s nieces, who were in an unfortunate family situation and were in need of stability in their living situation. Laura Gail had stepped up and raised them like her own for the past seven or eight years. The fact that she’d already been divorced from that husband didn’t stop her from helping. She was, essentially, a single-income mother with four children and some very different family dynamics. I stayed mesmerized by the story, mainly because of her pretty eyes and the natural flow of her story-telling abilities. When she finished, I smiled, took a pause before I explained:
“That’s awesome, but I just meant ‘how’d she get the name “Bubbles”?”
She blushed a bit, and with just a dash of embarrassment told a much shorter story about her daughter’s name. She had me hooked at that point. My heart was hooked, to be specific.
The twenty-fifth of March, this Saturday, we will celebrate eleven years of marriage. It’s not the first marriage for either of us. We were not young and idealistic when we wed. We had all eyes open, and knew our limits and our expectations. We had both had “interesting” romantic pasts that gave us realistic approaches to life’s crazy, winding roads. We were both very different, and very much the same. That being said, I fell for her like a ton of bricks.
Our marriage hasn’t been perfect. I’m not an easy man to live with, or to put up with. She’s loved me, in spite of my mistakes, stupidity and the innate ability to put my foot in my mouth at the wrong times. She brought balance to my life. She filled my heart with a down to earth love that wasn’t there before I met her. She doesn’t let me get away with any crap. She’s a very practical person. A “do it now” kinda gal. I’m a procrastinator. She likes to balance her checkbook. I can’t find my checkbook. We’re the couple you probably wouldn’t put together if you met us separately, but when you see us together you say “Yep. They’re perfect for each other.” I agree.
I live in Laura’s House. I may have a corner to myself (I actually have more stuff/junk than she does) but it’s always going to be Laura’s House. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had bought and paid for it. She’s my queen. It’d be hers to rule, regardless. Those eyes, that smile and that aggravating sassiness keep my heart locked up in her hands. I’ll take the corner, as long as I’m with her. It’s worth it. Happy Anniversary, Laura Gail. I love you!
p.s.
That was a mop streak on the dining room floor. Just sayin.
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Rolling Stones 