6: Mr. Jenn provides me with endless entertainment. When times grow dark I have fond memories of the merriment to embrace. One particular incident dissolves me into giggles each time I think of it. Mr. Jenn was working on a battery charger behind the barn at our old house. He thought he was alone, but I was spying on him out the kitchen window. I could tell by the way he was stomping around that his fixes hadn’t worked. He kept circling the black box, kneeling, unscrewing bolts, then screwing them back. When he finally rose, put his hands in his pockets, and stood staring at the thing, I knew he was the one getting screwed by this charger. He was still for a moment. With an almost involuntary leg movement, he hauled off and kicked the box. He paused, hands still in his pockets. I snorted from my vantage point. I stopped chortling when he began fiddling with his zipper. Oh, no—I thought. He wouldn’t do that. But he did. I collapsed in a heap of hilarity on the kitchen floor. Smoke rose from the beleaguered box as Mr. Jenn peed all over it.
5. When Mr. Jenn proposed, he enlisted the help of an old friend with a carriage tour business in his home town. He booked the bottom floor in a lighthouse for the night, and he had his friend arrive at a preset time all decked out in traditional attire with her big, white horse, Elvis, and her antique carriage. She took us on an evening tour of the town, and Mr. Jenn proposed in front of a beautiful old mansion on the main street. Sigh! It was perfect, and Elvis farted in approval!
4: He’s cute and talented in ways that count. I will take Bonnie Raitt’s and Sippie Wallace’s advice from their 1973 rendition of “Don’t Advertise Your Man” and shut up.
3: He can fix anything (and he pees all over things he can’t—makes me wish I had a penis): This week, Mr. Jenn headed over to my parents’ house to retrieve and fix my old jon boat, Penelope. My parents bought Penelope for me when I was eleven, and I spent most summers running the rivers near my house. Penelope and I have spent hours croaker fishing and crabbing, as well.
A recent tornado carried my little boat across the yard and tore some holes in the stern. I hadn’t been too easy on her, either, as a kid. I loved to take her out in rough water, so the ribs had come loose from the bottom of the little boat, too. Mr. Jenn spent his entire day off this week searching for scrap aluminum and welding supplies to knit poor Penelope back together. Some guy had quoted him $300 to fix her. After ponderin’, piecin’, fabricatin’, and caulkin’, Mr. Jenn mended Penelope for $25, the cost of the tube of marine caulking. In honor of our 11th anniversary, we are taking her out jug fishin’ up the creek aways. If you don’t see any posts from me for awhile, I guess you can assume the caulk didn’t work, and the fish are taking their revenge.
2: Mr. Jenn doesn’t put up with my crap, or anybody else’s for that matter. He’s excellent when I need to make a list of pros and cons about a tough issue I’m facing, and he plays great devil’s advocate. He totally cuts me off when I bitch, though. His hatred of listening to a litany of problems he can’t solve has its downsides, and we’ve had words over his refusal to pay attention to me when I’m flogging dead horses. He admits that he makes a crappy girlfriend, even though I’ve come home and begged him to just be a chick for five minutes.
“I can’t make you happy; that’s not my responsibility,” he says. “You have to make yourself happy.”
I haven’t always done this. When the going gets tough, I have been known to sulk in my corner. Mr. Jenn, on the other hand, has faced and beaten cancer twice, been through a hella divorce, and had a heart attack at 43 that nearly killed him. He’s never had time to whine and sulk. Aside from keeping himself healthy, he’s been too busy rearing successful kids, getting promoted at work, hunting, and fixin’ my boat.
“Get on with it,” he says. “There’s no time for this crap—you only get one ride through here, and if you want to waste it bitching, then that’s your problem.”
Some may call him insensitive; I still do at times. However, as evidenced by this blog’s existence, I haven’t spent the last two months of my free time griping about the unfixable. I’m just making fun of it.
1: The number one reason that I love Mr. Jenn is that he’s a good dad. He has spent hours at school functions, he makes cupcakes, he does school presentations, and he was the only Room Father in our school’s history. He has coached Big T.’s baseball and football teams, he’s snuck off from work to watch games, and he gets up at all hours of the night for hunting and golf trips. He’s spent hours at Big A’s volleyball and tennis matches and slept by her bedside during her bout with meningitis. He makes up songs for Lil’ K. and Lil’ P., including the original “Potty Song,” and reads to them every night. He’s been puked, peed, and shat on and wears the stains like a champ. At the risk of advertising too much, I’m married to one sexy daddy…Happy 11th Anniversary, Baby! I love you!
I’m linking this post up with Mama Kat’s Pretty Much World Famous Writers’ Workshop. Check out the prompts and link up!