It doesn't change a thing, but even so, after twenty-five years, it's nice to know

It's that time of year again. No, not Thanksgiving. Not Christmas. Not False Confession Day. No, tomorrow marks three years that Jessie and I have put up with having someone steal the covers from you while you're sleeping. So once again, you have the privilege of listening to me highlight my husband's amazing super powers. Don't worry, mushiness is not my strong suit, this should be safe reading for small children and endangered species.

So, Jessita, thanks for three years of wedded bliss. I was a little worried you were only marrying me to get a free Mexican cruise, but then, I only married you for your rare book inheritance, so we're even. I thought maybe you'd jump ship about month seven to pursue your career writing love songs to Excel, but when you let me make up that Christmas budget and showed me how to use the sorting function, I knew we'd make it. Those days we were lost in the barbaric Antimony countryside were rough, when we thought we were going to die, but I'll always treasure the moment we looked into each other's eyes and promised that if only one of us made it out , they'd come back and put our car's punctured oil pan over the other's grave. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

Here's to you, Mr. Warner. Thanks for making your fatherly example and genetic contribution to this adorable little dictator:

Thanks for not leaving me after you learned how much I suck at this:

Thanks for not making me get rid of my giant collection of these:


And thanks for showing up on time to get permanently stuck with me on this day (although I'm not grateful you tricked me into thinking you'd forgotten. Minus ten thousand anniversary brownie points for you!):

The last three years have been awesome.

Here's to the next ninety-seven.

And you'd better bring chocolate, my friend.