Crab legs denied.

Sometimes you get so used to something, you forget how amazing it really is.  I don't gasp anymore when I flip the switch and the lights come on.  That's just what they do. Electricity shmetricity. Not that cool because I've have it since I was born.  Sometimes I do the same thing with the people I live with and I forget how extraordinary they are and what I have. The other day one of the residents wives mentioned how her husband wasn't coming home for dinner since there was a sponsored dinner by some drug reps at some fancy pants lobster and crab leg restaurant. Garrett had never said a word about it so I mentioned it to him as we ate some shmooshy quintessential Mormon casserole (you know what I mean, 2 cans of cream of chicken soup, a bunch of cheese with some sort of meat, there's a trillion varieties of the exact same thing...). I wondered if maybe he didn't know about the free deluxe-o dinner.   He casually acknowledged he did know about the fancy restaurant dinner that was for all residents.

I was really weirded out that he hadn't even mentioned it to me or considered it an option (I mean, just imagine the leftover possibilities...). I was wondering if his brain was turned on and what in the world was doing coming home for cream o' crap casserole when he could be having crab legs, lobster tail and steak.  He looked at me like I was weird for wondering.  He said, "Chel, why would I ever go to dinner anywhere when I have the chance to come home and be with you and Liv? Who the heck cares about crab legs?" 

Well, me. I care about crab legs. But obviously I'm married to man that has his priorities in the right order. Wife before crab. Yep, that's the order.  I think it was just so weird to me how he didn't even consider it for a second.  Maybe I could understand if when he walked through the door I was pulling out chicken cordeon bleu with my toned arms and size 2 body in a clean apron while our immaculate house smelled of baked goods.  The reality is, my arms look like someone glued bread dough on the back of them, there's a 50/50 chance of even having mascara on and our house usually smells like Liv with a garage sale looking living room full of her toys and remnants of the days activities.  That's the reality and the crazy part is that Gar loves that reality.  He loves me. Bread dough arms and all. He wants to come home.  He wants to be here. In our little 1100 square foot hamster cage more than anywhere else.

It's something I cognitively knew but it just felt nice to know that crab legs couldn't hold a candle to cream o' crap casserole, dirty diapers, untoned arms, and our imperfect reality that is our home.  A reality that is imperfectly perfect for what I need and want.  It's so good to feel that the person I love more than anything, loves it too.