Stuff Married People Like

#31. We watch MTV once a year.

Stuff Married People Like: The 2010 MTV Movie Awards. Am I too old and too married to watch MTV? Probably. But if there’s a show with the word “movie” and “awards” in it—we’re watching. Of course, things can get a little wacky in MogLand on Red Carpet Days.

The movie-award madness began at 9p. But at 8:55p, John was hurrying to complete his “Art Achievement” certificates for the 5^th Grade Assembly. In the rush to finish his homework, he forgot to turn off the sprinklers. Sadly, we were in mid-torrential downpour by the time the light went off in his Hollywood-obsessed brain. Making us the only married people in the history of married people who water their grass, in the rain.

That night, I heard more than a few F-bombs between 9p-11p. I haven’t been this shocked since Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl fiasco. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the censor dude was a little tipsy, because the bleep was falling a second behind. I watched, mouth agape as on-stage celebs spewed rapid-fire swears. I guess this should come as no surprise from the show with a category for “Best WTF Moment.”

Here are five words that I thought I’d never say, let alone put in writing, “I agree with Howard Stern.” I believe it was he who first enlightened me with the truth that swearing shows a lack of intelligence. But what the $*@# does that guy know anyway, right?

During the teen-targeted commercial breaks, my hubby sent me links to a few of my favorite movie clips. Meanwhile, I, of course, watched the commercials. Though I was half-tempted to hop online and join the Twittersphere, where Tweens (and I suspect a few Millennials as well as divorcés) were in a heated debate over the ageless pop culture question: Team Edward or Team Jacob?

Do married people watch MTV? Really, I’d like to know. Because we skip it 364 days out of the year. Yet I was tickled when the MTV Movie Awards brilliantly opened with Les Grosman aka Tom Cruise. I love this dance scene the way most guys love an action sequence. Check it out and a few other favs:

 

Sandra Bullock

Kevin James & Will Smith

#30. Memorial Day Weekend 2010: (Thanks Grandpa!)

I did yardwork yesterday. Okay, so I held a garbage bag open while John shoveled in heavy loads of mulch. That counts, right? Why are married people soooo obsessed with curb appeal anyway?  Living in Suburbia has gone to Mog’s head and our bank account. If the grass looks greener on our side of the fence, that’s because it is.

*** BEFORE ***

 

Here’s what I want to do: Write to Home Depot and propose a rewards program, like earning points to spend elsewhere—a collaboration with Old Navy or Target perhaps? It’s the marital trifecta. Husbands get to buy their DIY-materials and wives reap the rewards of both a house-in-order and a shopping spree. See, win, win, win.

What I like most about Memorial Day weekend (besides the extra day off) is the barbeque—the smell of propane + juicy meat filling the air. American flags waving from front porches. Yet, ‘twas the night before Memorial Day, and I had a wicked craving for fried rice.

As soon as John Deere finished in the yard, we ventured to the Dragon Buffet. Not too sure how the veterans would have felt about that? But I was pumped. I even shaved my legs for the heartburn-inducing date night. Besides I hadn’t been out to dinner since before my last blog post. Yes, that long.

Even though it’s been awhile since I posted any SMPL fodder, I’m proud to announce that in spite of my inconsistency, StuffMarriedPeopleLike.com has been ruling the blogosphere for an entire year. Who’s bringing the cake?

In other anniversary news, next month marks five years of wedded bliss here in MogLand. I just Google’d and learned the traditional gift for half-decade is diamonds. Shocking, right? I can’t help but wonder what the next five years will bring. I know one thing: We ain’t moving.

Here’s an idea I can’t wrap my brain around: My paternal grandparents lived in the same house for over 60 years. Just two months before my grandmother passed, I asked her one of life’s biggest questions: What’s the secret to marriage? Her wisdom-filled reply: The secret to marriage is putting up with the other person’s sh*t.  Truer words were never spoken. This from a woman buried in a t-shirt that read:

You think being a Marine is hard?

Try being married to one.

Now, if you substitute OCD for Marine, I totally relate.

***AFTER ***

Why yes, these trees were planted six feet apart and exactly 28 inches from the fence.
Happy Memorial Day! God Bless the USA, the soldiers and those who love them.

# 29. Welcome to LegoLand

What is the hardest thing about having a baby? You never sleep again—or so they say. All I know is that I spent the first two nights sleeping in the spare bedroom with Lego wrapped around my neck like a scarf. It beat the alternative, which was locking him up and listening to him cry. A four-pound pup can break your heart. Click below if you don’t believe me, and you’ll hear what I mean.

LEGO_CrateCries

Waking Lego from his afternoon nap is my favorite part of the day. He is so happy to be released from his crate. (Kisses all around!) After releasing him from solitary doggy confinement, I immediately carry him outside, where I follow him across the yard continually commanding, but mostly pleading: “Go potty!” Surely my neighbors think I’m a crazy, unemployed woman, who waltzes around in her pajamas five days a week, every half hour. There’s nothing private about a 5’ privacy fence when you’re 5’9”.

Other than John referring to our puppy as the “bastard child” or “the accident,” integrating Lego into our daily lives has been a rather charming experience. Even though everything has changed.

Nowadays, my pockets are packed with “rewards” also known as puppy food. This is sort of like a mother who always has spit up on her clothes. I always tell John there are no bad students—just bad parents, and I’m thinking the same rule applies to puppy parenthood.

John mocks my research-driven training methods by referring to me as the Dog Whisperess. Most of the books I read (and by books I mean web pages) advise strongly on three puppy basics:

1.) Puppies need a seven-day routine. (Goodbye sleeping ‘til noon on weekends.)

2). Dogs live in the present. So all positive/negative reinforcement has to be made in the moment. (Hence always being armed with rewards.)

3). Never ever leave a puppy unsupervised. Never. Ever. Ever.

One site I Google’d across offered an extreme tip on how to train a puppy. It proposed that I secure Lego to a leash and restrict him by my side at all times in the house. I always said I’d be one of those parents who put her kid on a leash in Target. Yet I shudder to think of Lego chained to my ankle while I sit at my desk and write. Seems cruel and unusual, for both of us.

Thanks to Mog teaching the lil guy how to use the stairs, Lego has an all-access pass to our house. Of course this means we close doors. Build blockades out of pillows. And tip over dining room chairs. John refers to the barrier of cushions between our new couches as the MogLand Dam. Squeaky toys deck the hallways. Half-chewed bones are abandoned in every corner. But each night after Lego goes to sleep in his crate, our house magically returns to normal. Yes, that’s the power of OCD. But the truth is, MogLand is now Lego’s world and we’re all just livin’ in it.

#28. MogLand: Party of Four

Married people like new editions: My favorite new show, “The Marriage Ref” hasn’t even hit the airwaves yet. Look for it on Thursdays after the Olympics. (Quick! Set the DVR.) Did I mention its creator is none other than the King of Nothingness? Seinfeld is turning the mirror, letting a panel of celebrities poke a little fun at our love lives. These are the real housewives (and husbands) under the lens of Hollywood. I’m curious.

Good TV is so hard to come by these days. What the world needs is more TV about the couples, less about the bachelors. (I heart Derek and Meredith’s post-it marriage, do you?) In the meantime, here’s a ‘lil update @ married life in MogLand:

1.) We’ve clocked at least 20 non-cinematic hours this week. My anti-sports husband is a fanatic for the Vancouver Games: Downhill Moguls. The Half-Pipe. Speed skating. We’ve watched ‘em all, baby. Do you know what we learned? We could never be an Olympic Figure Skating couple. Ever. Not only would it be illegal to see either of our bodies in those tight, bright, sequence-covered leotards, but—we would totallllllly fight. If my derrière landed on the cold ice, it would surely be blamed on his weak toss.

2). My DIY Hubby Tidbit #3982: John fixed my brother’s industrial-size spreader, and it only took two trips to Home Depot. Later, when I found the receipts on the counter, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’m pretty sure Mog is the only man who ever went to HD racking up a .74 cents tab.

3). Binge Bust February 2010: The low point of the week came when I found Mog curled up on the couch with a bottle of Bacos. Yes, Bacos. Yes, a full bottle. I just shook my head, communicating telepathically (which is one of my wife-enabled super powers) that the Bacos make the raw pasta seem so, elementary.  Three hours later, he was forced to agree.

4). We are addicted to Orange Julius. I’ve had four glasses in the last 24 hours. Oscar turns into a yappy jumping bean the second John flips the blender switch. But there’s nothing like a smoothie to imbibe the spirit of the Winter Games. It’s sorta like ICEEs at the theater, but different.

5). MogLand Census 2010: John has spent the past week cataloging his vast DVD and Blu-Ray collection. He says it’s “addicting” and has already logged over 200 movies in his iPod Touch. (Mind you, he hasn’t even reached the letter G.) Maybe my brother is right? Maybe we are “cave dwellers.” But what can I say? There’s no place like home entertainment.

Oh yeah, and we got a puppy.

The End.

 

 

#27. Jumping to 3-D conclusions.

Married people like cinemagic: My first writing job, fresh out of college, was for the local newspaper. My day-to-day responsibilities: read, proof, edit and fact-check obituaries. It didn’t take long before I realized my paychecks were hardly justifying my student loans. So I moved to Chicago for a ‘lil continuing education. Only to become a portfolio school drop out. (Thanks honey!)

After I ditched school, John assembled my portfolios and distributed them to a dozen agencies. Resulting in my next writing gig—working for one of the largest advertising agencies in the Southeast. (Thanks honey!) My first Creative Director was a five-foot-four Jewish man from NYC, who acted like a six-foot-six Italian. I was scared to speak in his presence, mostly because he corrected my grammar in mid-conversation.

Just a few months into my copywriting career, I took a job as a movie critic. John, as you can imagine, was stoked. This time, I enjoyed writing for the newspaper because it was my picture in black and white. Writing movie reviews was a near-perfect experience. It was the culmination of our MogLand passions, with one minor glitch. The movie selection was not up to us, and let me tell you, the editor picked a few doozies. We actually walked out of All the Kings Men; that was a first, for John. 

Fast-forward five years (and three cities) and I find myself coming out of MogLand & Ebert retirement, to write a little somethin’ somethin’ about Avatar. This one’s for you, Gram:

“Pandora” aka “Avatar”

It’s been a month since Christmas. Can you believe it? Avatar opened on Christmas Day 2009 and smashed every box office record. (Even topping the Almighty George Lucas.)* Avatar hit the silver screen with a creative pricetag tallying three-hundred-million-dollars. Yet I had zero interest in seeing the sci-fi-freak-show.

Don’t be like me.

When I watched the previews for Avatar, my narrow-mind judged the cast as nothing more than a glorified Blue Man group. Based on the movie trailers alone, I assumed Avatar was hyped-up and hollow. I hadn’t grasped that the main character portrays a spinal cord injured ex-Marine. (Sounds like a hero, right?) Nor did I realize the core message is to respect all living things—yes, even the trees. Avatar has a strong we’re-all-in-this-together mantra, set against the unruly backdrop of greed, destruction and war. The action unfolds on a psychedelic planet called Pandora, which should have been the title.

My husband is now smitten with leading-lady Zoe Saldana. Did I mention he’s purchased two Avatar-related books from Amazon.com? Oh, and thanks to this film, I see a 3-D DVD player in my future. For now, John seems content contemplating alternative uses for his 3-D glasses.

*A MogLand Disclaimer, “one of us” would like it noted that inflation must be taken into consideration when calculating (and comparing) box office battles. Ultimately, record-setting motion pictures should be evaluated based on attendance. Not sales. Star Wars premiered in the late 70s. Tickets were a few bucks. That's why when you level the economic playing field, Lucas still prevails. 

 

#26. The early bird gets the couch.

(Some) married people like to nap: I spend 40+ hours a week in the northwest corner of our house. My office sits over the garage for prime driveway visibility. You can find me here Monday-Friday, draped in my grandmother’s patchwork quilt. Usually, eating something sugarcoated, caked or frosted.

Incase you didn’t know, the life of a desk-jockey promotes poor posture. By the end of the day, my lanky body feels hunched, curled and cramped from being trapped behind an L-Shape desk. As the hours go by, I lean closer and closer to the screen. This creates inevitable back strain from my arch-to-slouch ratio, and when it comes to shunning the zoom key, my pride is wearing thin. By the end of my wordsmith workday, all I want to do is unwind. Stretch. Relax. The problem is, I don’t have anywhere to kick up my Uggs.

John arrives home from school around 4:30pm. By 4:37pm, you can find him collapsed into the couch facing the flat screen. Usually, he falls asleep to a random movie from the 90s featuring Sigourney Weaver. But all I want to do is unfold into the cushions and watch the nightly news, on E!

There are morning-people. There are night-people. And there are nap-people. John is the latter. I equate waking from a nap with self-inflicted torture. Getting up in the morning is painful. Why would I want to do it more than once per day? Oddly, my Polish/Croatian husband finds afternoon siestas soothing. I understand he needs to rest after school. The toils of teaching are certainly beyond me. He sets his alarm for 5am just so he can have one hour of peace to himself. Me? I roll out of bed 15-30 minutes before work and slip on a clean pair of PJs.

Sometimes for lunch, I float aimlessly around the kitchen, sporadically peering through the mini-blinds like a one-woman neighborhood watch. Most of the calls I get during the day are from elderly telemarketers. Thus, I donated to a few extra organizations in 2009. Judging by the mail, my contact information has found its way onto every charity list. Growing up, I knew the mailman had arrived by my cocker spaniel’s incessant barking. But here in MogLand, it’s the mail-mama’s muffler that provides a mid-afternoon reminder to do two things:

1.) Make the bed
2.) Refill my drink

I rarely leave the house except for church on Sundays. Recently, I’ve noticed that I get extra excited around visitors. This makes me feel like I’m turning into my dog. Oscar greets every guest with utter joy. We practically race to catch the FedEx man. I wish I had my dog’s P.O.V.: He loves everybody, and he also thinks that everybody loves him.

Oscar is my favorite coworker. He doesn’t gossip. (He doesn’t yap at the muffler.) But Godforbid the doorbell rings while I’m on a client call; occasionally I have actual conversations with actual human beings. Otherwise, by the end of the day, my mouth feels like a coffee-stained desert. Not only is the muffler my Pavlovian-signal to venture downstairs for a cold drink. It’s also a precursor for naptime, and knowing I’ll be banished to the second floor for a little while longer.

 

#25. Chill out. Or not.

Married people like it hot: Before the arctic blast of January 2010, and before Miami altered my definition of southern comfort, I believed Charlotte had ideal weather conditions. Then again, I might be the only person who ever lived on the beach sporting a year-round Ohio complexion. 

We grew up in the northeastern-corner of the heartland. We were pros at enduring constant cloud coverage and, at times, frigid temps. My childhood preparations for playing in the snow included pulling plastic bread bags over layered socks. Today, I couldn’t survive a Youngstown winter—with or without the proper gear. This is how I know I’ve been spoiled by sunshine: When we journeyed north for Christmas ’09, we packed a portable space heater. My mother said we were crazy. But we heated my old bedroom to a balmy 80 degrees and transformed the bathroom into a steamy sauna. Now that’s what I call, crazy-smart.

John says that Y-town thermostats are manufactured without sevens. He snuck a peek at every wall-meter during our Friends & Family X-Mas Tour. At least our loved ones were consistent, making us suffer in the frosty upper 60-degree range. Inhumane conditions aside, I was ready to turn back to NC based on my new addiction to Kleenex. But, I couldn’t leave. There were more people to see! And time was of the essence. So what did we do? Stay an extra day, of course.

Postponing our departure for 24 hours meant sharing the highway with millions of road warriors, all heading home the Sunday after Christmas, exactly what we were trying to avoid.
 

Whenever we travel, I treat the passenger seat like my undercover cockpit, where silent judgment flies with reckless abandon. Funny, I’m always stunned to pass a smoker on the highway. I also count how many people are talking—or worse—texting on their cell phones. But mostly, my passion for vehicular-eavesdropping is driven by envy; I long for a new car, preferably one with a built-in DVD player, iPod-compatible technology and digital seat warmers.

Do you think technology has forever-changed the family road trip? Being locked-in for long hours has lost a little pizzazz. That’s because making an entertainment escape is so easy nowadays. Here in MogLand, we still play good ‘ol fashioned car games. Our favorite: Name that movie soundtrack. I even surprised myself by recognizing the tune to Transformers. Yes, Geekdom is a slippery slope.

We made our Youngstown departure at dawn. But when we reached our usual halfway point, it was anything but restful. Nestled in the mountains of West Virginia, the snow-covered parking lot was overtaken by east coast Griswolds. Every gas pump had a five-car minimum wait. And don’t even get me started on the line for Starbucks. In light of the mass confusion, John made the executive decision to not refuel (even though we had less than a ¼ tank). We stopped a few exits later. Only to get stuck in the same crowded chaos, different scenery. But the trip’s all-time low, came in the fifth hour…

One minute we’re cruising around the mountain at a steady 75mph, and the next, we’re sandwiched in a bumper-to-bumper chain of Christmas commuters. It took over an hour to advance five miles. That’s when Mog joked that we might run out of gas—but at least we had the space heater. 

 

 
 
 

#24 iChristmas

 

Married people like to re-gift: From pilfering last-minute presents for a three-year-old to swiping a box of chocolates for my father, I re-gifted seven times this year. Yes, seven. I counted. There is no shame in my re-gifting game. I am not above recycling presents, even for my hubby.

Our MogLand Christmas was scheduled two days before our Y-Town pilgrimage. Each of us was convinced that we purchased the piece de resistance. We had a bet going for weeks. ‘Tis the season to taunt and flaunt, right?

I will never forget our first Christmas together. (I hadn’t yet learned to keep my mouth shut.) My husband is the kind of person who is always listening for gift ideas. That year he gave me one present for 12 days; each gift was hand-wrapped and ribbon-tied with a one-line love note. We had been “dating” for three months at this point. But I knew this was our first Christmas for the rest of our lives together.

Now in our fifth go-around, we operate a little differently. This year, the big to-do was the hanging of the stockings. Never again would we nail them to apartment drywall. Hallelujah! In honor of the stockings being hung over a real fireplace, we vowed to have a gift exchange. The only rule? Gifts had to fit inside the stocking. (I thought this would curb spending.)

We launched our MogLand Christmas celebration with a Chipotle feast. Then when it came time to open our gifts, I went first. I reached inside my stocking and pulled out a four-pack of LipSmuckers soda-flavored chapsticks. (Surely he didn’t think he could trump my gift-giving abilities with wax?) I reached deeper in the foot of the stocking and pulled out a 2x2 note made from red construction paper. It read:

“Look by your Star Wars ornament.”

I gave John a few looks and then rushed to the tree, where I found the second note: “Look inside your favorite Reese Witherspoon movie!” The third note was in the pantry near Oscar’s treats. But the fourth note was the best: “Look in the one room you hardly go in!” Yes, the fourth and final clue rested inside the drum of the dryer. It had been planted there since morning. John said his heart nearly stopped when I sent him this text earlier that day: I WAS going to do laundry. But u didn’t sort it. Sucks for you.

The dryer clue directed me to look under the bed, where I found a box wrapped in the now familiar red construction paper. The homemade wrapping paper was embellished with white polka dots, cut from a hole-puncher and glued individually. Clearly, this present was: Part art project. Part romantic. All Australian. Inside the box was a new pair of dreamy, chocolate and creamy, striped Uggtastics.

Yet, I was still confident that I had bought the best gift for John. The scavenger hunt wrapped with a brief modeling session; I paraded around the bedroom in my new boots. And then we headed downstairs. So John could lose, officially.

I removed the stocking from the mantle and handed it to him on the couch. He pulled out the first present—a black t-shirt sporting the Marvel logo as a bold breastplate of fandom. Man, did his face light up! When he pulled out the second (and intended game-clincher) gift, he shook the box side-to-side, asking: “Is this a Zippo?”

I rolled my eyes, “Yeah. It’s a Zippo—engraved with your initials and everything.”

When he opened the box, I witnessed a momentary glimpse of defeat wash over him. He wasn’t prepared to behold the divinity of a MacDaddy Apple iPod. And I was just beginning to bask in my glory when he removed the Nano from its practically brand-new case.

Admiring the art of the industrial design, he rolled the Nano over and around in the palm of his hand, respecting the ingenuity from every angle. Turns out, I gave John an engraved gift after all. Apparently, the Nano was etched with the University of Full Sail logo. But hey, at least it’s a re-gift via a close friend via an awesome art school—and it was never even used. That should count for something, right?

Incase you’re wondering who won the bet—we called it a tie. Although, both of us feel we won. And, technically, John cheated. The boots did not fit inside the stocking.

#23. I’m dreaming of a white-light Christmas.

Married people like the holiday spirit: This is our first Christmas in our first house together. Mucho exciting. Nothing can ruin my holiday cheer. I’m enchanted by the way our home has been transformed via red and gold décor. John would add white lights to every available surface and keep them up year round, if I let him.

When you stand back a few feet from our Christmas tree, it looks tasteful yet typical. But sometimes you have to look closely to see the big picture: Our pre-lit branches are decorated with a magical blend of glittered-covered butterflies and battery-operated Star Wars ships. You can tell a lot about people from their choice of ornaments, don’t you think? My sister-in-law, for example, displays NY Yankee bulbs 24/7/365.

Turning the tree on is my favorite part. My handy hubby rigged the garage door opener to double as a remote. With the click of a button, I am enraptured by the warm, white-light glow and a few of John’s favorite sounds: the voice of James Earl Jones, R2D2’s musical tones and the lashing of light sabers. Listen closely and you will also hear, “We’re doomed.” Or this one: “Fire at will commander.” But my favorite ornament is the Imperial Shuttle, which plays Vader’s leitmotif. In fact, as the self-appointed dark Lord of MogLand, I choreographed an entire dance to the iconic beat. Sadly, even a simple march-in-place reveals that I am rhythmically challenged. 

Fueled by the radio and department store behemoths, holiday songs are fundamental to this festive time of year. That’s why I swap HBO and E! for the music channel during the holidays, flipping between classic Christmas melodies and modern twists like Tom Petty’s “Christmas All Over Again.” A few weeks ago, while I jammed to the seasonal tunes, John ventured outside to hang more white lights. 

He wasn’t so much hanging lights as decorating a few side-by-side shrubs. Then he buried the excess strand in the mulch, and even though the tiny lights were covered in dirt, he insisted on taking extra camouflage measures, disguising the unused bulbs with black electrical tape. This is what I call Obsessive Control Disorder.

Observing John’s meticulous nature in the barely above freezing temps provoked my desire to unwind. So I whipped up my favorite holiday treat—hot chocolate. Oh, but not just any hot chocolate. I’m talking Ghirardelli All Natural Premium Baking Cocoa. I grabbed a cheery red coffee cup and filled it with milk. Then stirred in two teaspoons of chocolate-powdered heaven. Unfortunately, the powder didn’t dissolve easily. (Apparently, you’re supposed to heat the milk first.) So I stopped with the stirring and placed my holiday-appropriate mug in the cancer-oven.

After a minute and a half, I opened the micro-door to an ooey-gooey explosion. The chocolate-coated cup didn’t look so jolly after that. And the inside of our microwave suddenly looked as though it belonged to college co-eds. There was only one thing left to do: open the dishwasher, grab a green mug, and transfer the goods. Can’t let a little thing like a cocoa-catastrophe spoil my holiday spirit.

#22. Poetic Justice: Out of the mouths of babes.

Married people like flattery: Since making the move from Miami to Charlotte, our biggest challenge (and biggest blessing) has been employment. We uprooted our lives and careers in the middle of a historic econ-crisis. Needless to say, certain family members thought we were loco. Sure, it was an 800-mile leap of faith. But is there any other way to live?

Now in his second-week of teaching elementary art, John returns home with pockets full of handwritten notes and candid renderings done by the young Crayola creatives. Yesterday, a first grader drew a diagram of the brain complete with labeled lobes.(Perhaps the show should be called are you smarter than a 1^st grader?)

Today, John received a poem from one of his brighter pupils—a writer, duh. Upon reading the student’s epigrammatic words of wisdom, my hubby remarked, “Oh, I gotta take this home to show my wife. She’ll never believe what you wrote.” Fast-forward a few hours: We’re standing in the kitchen and John hands me a folded 8.5 x 11 piece of paper. I open it up to read a pithy acrostic of our last name. Unfortunately, the kid lost me from the get-go.

He began with: “Mr. Cool.”
And then there was this doozy: “Optimistic.”
But he saved the best for last: “Happy.”

Clearly this elementary scholar never got the memo. Behind the scenes, our family affectionately refers to John as “Uncle Grumpy.” I guess what’s true for the corporate cage is true for the classroom, everyone has two reputations—one to uphold and one to hide. But unlike suits and nine-to-fivers, teachers aren’t in it for the moo-la-la. Speaking from 15.5 years of schooling, only the best teach from their hearts…and unless this poetically inclined student is suffering from delusions, I couldn’t be more proud of my man.