Meaghen

Meaghen has proven herself the man in this relationship.

Yesterday, I lugged a Christmas Tree up the stairs and tried to set it up in the little log stand that came with it. After a few....seconds...of trying to wedge the trunk into the little hole carved into the log-stand, I gave up. My hands were hurting. I was covered with pine needles. I was feeling vaguely depressed.

"Meaghen, I totally can't do this."

She ambled over to inspect my progress. "......right. Ok....I'm not sure what you were trying to do here, but....there you go."

With basically a flick of her pinky, the tree was standing proud and tall.

Today, we thought it would be an excellent idea to get our fire going. Meaghen broke wood kindling apart like a champ, built the fire and got it going roaring quite savagely. Part of me wanted to help. But the other part of me knew I would be next to useless. Snap a board in half with my foot?

Oh please.

Try to light wood on fire?

Let's be honest: I would most likely light myself before the wood caught.

Instead, I made her tea and put out a plate of cookies to show my appreciation for her manly gifts, and then painted my nails as our living room warmed up and the sounds of crackling wood filled the air.

She also sweeps the floor, because she knows it makes me really queasy to even think about doing that.

During the violent parts of Prison Break or whatever else we happen to be watching, I cover my head with a blanket and hyperventilate until she tells me it's OK to look again. Occasionally I grab her arm and squeeze it until her circulation is cut off. She rarely complains.

She fully supports my chocolate addiction. In fact, her's might be worse than mine. She doesn't judge me when I have chocolate for breakfast.

What a friend, right?

Meaghen: Consider this a proposal.