April is for fools

Today is my 4th wedding anniversary. I thought it was awfully appropriate to get married for the second time on April Fool's Day. My husband and I have both lived through Spouse Version 1.0 and the resulting system failure, and to get married again and start on a whole new operating system is a celebration of hope over experience, as they say.

There are days when he irritates me to the point I want to pack up his shit and kick him out the door. Really. I keep trying to quantify what exactly our differences are that cause so much irritation, as I'm sure there must be something about me that annoys him equally. Ahem. Being the nit-picky word-nerd Virgo that I am, I keep questioning various underlying philosophies about personality. Is it because he's a Libra and therefore his answer to every question, from "should we go to the store today" to "do you believe in the vast eternity of the universe" is "Yes and no?" Is it because I'm an INFJ and therefore one of the pathetic 2% of the population who are apparently too sensitive to live? Is it because he's an extrovert and I'm an introvert? Because he's loud and funny and I'm quiet and wonky? Because he's a male being from planet Bizarro and I'm a female being from planet Shut the Fuck Up I'm Trying to Read?

The worst thing about living together is that you immediately become accustomed to all the good stuff, and all the bad stuff just annoys the hell out of you. Stacey thinks that men and women should live in separate apartments, possibly connected by a breezeway or maybe a dungeon, and I think I agree. I know I'm much happer and more tolerant of everyone's behavior when I've had a chance to be away from them for awhile. My husband, thank Buddha, knows this and does his best to accommodate me. Although if we were both animals, my husband would be a frisky dog, while I am a lazy, bed-hogging cat. He even drives with his head out the window, while I curl up in the passenger side with my coat around me, trying to stay awake on the long trip from point A to point B. I can't help it. My only true talent is sleep.

Anyway, my dear puppy dog of a husband version 2.0 took me on a little getaway for our anniversary, where I was as pampered and fed and groomed as any spoiled little Persian kitty could be. And just this afternoon I was treated to an enormous bouquet of lavender roses, sent to my desk at work.

For my part, I am taking him out tonight to one of his favorite red-meat restaurants, and this time instead of seething with annoyance while he takes 37 minutes to decide between creamed spinach or grilled asparagus, and then between prime rib and filet, and then asks the waiter to hold the tomatoes on his salad, and wraps up his order by asking for extra horseradish sauce "instead of au jus, and could you put it on the side" while requesting a Heineken "extra-cold," I will patiently remind myself that dogs, while yappy, frisky, and stupid enough to roll in goose shit, are also the most loyal and loving pets. And they're always happy to see you, which for the parents of three teenagers, is a minor miracle in itself. Happily ever after, 2.0.