Happy birthday, pookie schnookums

Well, you're probably all sick of the birthday talk, but it's not my fault Madeline insisted on coming the same week as Jessie's birthday. She's obstinate like that. And since Jessie's got 25 years to his credit instead of just one, I figured I'd be remiss if I didn't blog about what an old fogie he is. Seriously though folks, that's a quarter of a century. Time for a life crisis or something, don't you think? But no, he has to keep on being all responsible and charming and successful and handsome and stuff. He just doesn't know how to have a nervous breakdown. Here are some reasons I am glad Jessie was born:

He kills spiders. And takes care of dead mice.
He watches West Wing with me.
He produces cute offspring.
He got me to like Mexican Food, cheesecake, and pumpkin pie.
He appreciates Excel like no one else I know.
He makes really delicious empanadas and chicken parmesean.
He's a really good country dancer, and sort of makes me look like one too.
He uses the word "feisty" rather than "stubborn" to describe me.
He got me out of Antimony. Twice. Without anybody dying (although it was close.)
He has built houses that didn't fall down.
He can find a lot of Easter eggs.
He looks good in a tux.
He taught me pinochle.
He lets me blog about some of his more embarrassing life moments. And lack of holiday spirit.
He lets me read and critique his papers for school even if it brusies his ego.
He enables my smoothie bad food addictions.
He does all that boring marketing stuff so I can play with Madeline all day.
He only complains once in a while when I steal the covers.
He likes to hear me sing.
He lets me win at card/board games as often as it takes to keep the peace.

This is just a small sampling, lest you get bored and jealous reading about how awesome my husband is. You should all wish him happy birthday and good luck with his quarter life crisis.


Seriously. Aren't you glad that face was born?