Monday, June 11, 2012


The thing about Andrew is that you don't really know him unless you know him.


Off the bat, he is extremely likable. In public, he can be pretty quiet and almost withdrawn but he just seems together, y'know? He's not quiet because he's unsure of what to say; it's mostly that he doesn't feel the need to vocalize everything to people he doesn't know too well and, half the time, even the people who know him best (save me). But! Other times he becomes so aggressive vocalizing his uber (yes! uber!) liberal political ideas all over his Facebook feed that I tell him to calm down and personally apologize to the people he's arguing with. And another thing! He's so calm and even tempered and hardly ever gives into his wife's need for an argument, but his favorite movies are ridiculously violent ones with tons of blood and war and guts and nasty stuff.

He's so supportive that I often double stress about everything I want to do or spend money on because, truthfully, he believes I can do anything that I really want to do if I have a tiny sliver of talent for it. In reality, that means if I say "I want to charge this $2500 lens and pay it off within six months" he would think for a minute and then say, "Go for it" because he knows I can. In theory, it means that if I wanted to be a famous painter (which I don't have talent for), he wouldn't expect for me to be shown in any museums, but he'd happily send me to classes and dedicate a part of the apartment to my studio and he'd hang those suckers up everywhere, no matter how bad they looked. Which brings me to another point: He doesn't care that, when it comes to decorating, I love patterns and colors and personality. He likes that our apartment is an explosion of color! He likes that it's a constant work-in-progress and when he comes home and I'm covered in modge podge or have computer eyes and our son is running around half naked and I'm sporting a rat's nest, he's just as happy as when he comes home and everything is scrubbed clean and my make-up's not smudged and dinner's done and our son is wearing shoes without dirt on them.

And! When he sees me scribbling in a notebook at one in the morning, he asks "What are you writing about?" and I say, "You." he says, "Is it a book? Is it going to beat out Fifty Shades of Grey? Cause if it's erotica about me, it will." And then he pulls the covers up to his chin, says, "I love you" four times, makes three lame jokes, asks "Why are you laughing at me?" and then laughs at me when, five minutes later, I stop scribbling, nudge him awake, and ask if he checked the locks and the baby, even though both of us know that the other has already checked everything three times.

But then! One morning last week, he turned to me and said "I actually don't like orange rolls" and I was shocked. Like, shouldn't he have told me that three years ago before I deemed orange rolls to be our celebratory breakfast?! But! Then I realized that he never told me because I love orange rolls and if I'm happy, he's happy.

And really, that's the best way to describe Andrew.