This may be a bit more crass than you are used to reading from me. If purple prose inflames your sensibilities, click here to look at babeh kittehs and other cute things.
Moments after making sweating, trembly love, the kind where even if you braid your hair first it ends up in cool, damp mats afterward, having tumbled into our robes, my husband and I passed in the hall and he kissed me with a mustache still wet from drinking water with his pre-bedtime pills, I grabbed him by his belt and said...
THAT'S IT, I'M CUTTING YOUR MUSTACHE. Tomorrow, he said consolingly. RIGHT NOW. I changed my mind again. TOUGH SHIT C'MERE, I'LL JUST DO YOUR UPPER LIP.
And would you know that man let me drag him through a doorway and use the kitchen shears to trim his facial hair. If that's not love, I don't know what is, y'all. I didn't say anything on here because we didn't exactly celebrate except with cake for the children (my choice, I am a long-time birthday-hater), but today (for five more minutes) is my birthday and right now? I get the feeling thirty-two is gonna be a good year.