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I believe that human beings have an infinite capacity for love, but I also believe that we only have the capacity for one true love.  Nathan is my one true love and if he were to dump me for some stupid bimbo I wouldn’t even try to love another the way I love him.  I would just marry for money.

It’s the same with dogs - you can own twenty dogs in a lifetime but you can still only have one true love.  For both Nathan and me Ezra was the one.

We lost our one true love, after a very quick demise, at 4:42 a.m. on April 13th.  She died cradled in five sets of arms, her deep brown eyes looking at us with gratitude for a life well lived and well loved.

She was our first baby, a second mother to our children, my Ethel.

I miss the click of her nails on the hardwood.

I miss warming my feet on her soft belly in the night.

I miss scratching her favorite spot - the spilled milk white between her eyes and over her nose. 

I miss her snoring.

I’m not at all embarrassed to admit that I found a soulmate in a dog.

For the past thirteen years I’ve cried all my tears into the thick nape of Ezra’s neck.  And now I have all these tears and no neck.

I don’t know how to be without her.  I know there will be other dogs (dogs with money,) but there will never be another Ezra.

My prince and my revenge.

Tomorrow is the tenth annual Open that Bottle Night sponsored by Wall Street Journal wine columnists Dorothy Gaiter and John Brecher.  The idea is that everyone has a bottle of wine they save for a special occasion, but the special occasion never comes and the bottle turns to salad dressing.  So every year they host a night in February where people all over the world can open that special bottle of wine or champagne and celebrate it in and of itself.

I want to live every day as if it were Open that Bottle Night.  I’m not saying I want to be drunk on wine every night, although by Friday morning the thought has its attraction.  I’m saying I don’t want to live my life waiting for the perfect moment to… live.

I was raised by a woman who knew the value of good.  My mother had good sheets, good tablecloths, good glasses, good pillows, good quilts, all saved for when we had guests.  We never had guests.

She had good bathrobes, good nightgowns, good slippers, all saved for that special vacation.  We rarely went on vacation.

She had a good coat, good gloves, good purses, good scarves, good shoes, all saved for that special occasion like seeing a Broadway play in New York.  She never went to see Broadway plays.

I dread the day my sisters and I will have to find places for all the beautiful things my mother has never used, worn, opened, enjoyed.

I married a man who for some troubled reason grew up believing he would never live to be an adult, who never thought he would survive life to see his fortieth birthday.  You may be thinking how sad as I used to, but for whatever the cause of Nathan’s fears, the effect has been a life lived fully.  Every day Nathan wrings every stinking ounce out of his options; every day he wakes up and puts on his good tie, his good shoes, his good coat, and he drinks out of his very best crystal glass.  Every single day Nathan runs laughing into the cold ocean.

And every day I try to be more like him, to fight my desire to wait for the perfect moment to get off my lazy ass, to stop watching the game from the sidelines, because I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I have become salad dressing. 

(This might be a good time to remind you of those fingernail clippings…)

On Saturday I will be opening up a seven dollar bottle of wine and I will be toasting to whatever life might throw my way on Sunday, and to meeting it with purpose.

And I will be wearing my good underwear.

A shitty poem:

On a shirt. 

I meant it when I said I give up.

With love.

I’d like to thank Gwen for the awesome inspiration!

If you’re the type who simulates puking when you see signs of romance or public displays of affection please stop reading.  This might actually bring a little bile up in your mouth if you don’t.

Nathan is very romantic.  He writes me poetry.  He brings me flowers.  He leaves me notes on paper towels.

He chooses incredibly thoughtful, romantic gifts.  I’m not talking about jewelry or silk scarves here.

I’m talking about homemade cards:

I’m talking about making me art:

I’m talking about hand sewing me a quilt:

I’m talking about restuffing my childhood teddy bear, putting on new feet and making it a night shirt out of one of his old, soft and cuddly ones.

I’m talking about gathering every card and letter we’d ever exchanged and having our musical genius friend Sean write a song from them and then bringing me out to see the band debuting that song.  (I wish I could link to the video.  Sean, do we have a video?)

I won’t even mention the Dyson vacuum.

Do you have any idea what a freaking nightmare it is to try to buy gifts for this sonofabitch?

This time I had it in the bag.  This time I was going to come out on top.

Since Valentines Day falls on a Saturday night this year I cooked up a special little plan.  I found out my sister Nora was planning on coming into town for a visit and was willing to BABYSIT!  ON SATURDAY NIGHT!  OVER NIGHT!

I booked a romantic room in a beautiful old bed and breakfast in New Hope.  I made reservations for dinner at a romantic little Italian bistro.  Both of these places are walking distance from our favorite bar which means there would be no need for a designated driver.  Good food, a drunken night out with friends, and sleeping late in the morning - can it get more romantic than that?

And then Nathan tells me he’s made plans for Valentines Day:  An overnight sitter (the OTHER sister!)  A night in Philadelphia!  And tickets to see a BEN FOLDS CONCERT!! 

Crap, crap, crappity crap.

Did you know that the final scene of O. Henry’s Gift of the Maji was actually cut by his editor?

It’s where the wife beats the husband over the head with a stick!

Two days ago we got four inches of snow.  When Nathan got home from work he bundled up and went for a long walk on the nearby golf course while I cooked dinner.  After dinner he told me he would do the dishes if I would go for the same walk.  Okay, I’d have rather swapped for a bath, but it was a five pan dinner so I bundled up and found my boots.

It was pitch dark when I got to the open fields of the golf course.  Nathan told me the route he had taken, and I easily found his footprints in the otherwise pristine backdrop.  Big snowflakes fell on my face as I crossed the wooden bridge and entered a frozen wonder world.  Only the crunch of my boots broke the silence.

I’m sure the sight of trees dripping with powdered icicles and scattered deer prints crisscrossing in the moonlight was magnificent, and I know Nathan sent me to witness this beauty he had stumbled upon in his quest for exercise.  But I was too busy reveling in the exquisite allure and tranquility of walking step for step where Nathan had just walked.

Given the need I would follow that man to the moon, and I’d gladly do all the dishes when I got there.