Heath returned home yesterday after embarking on a 5-day hike through the Weminuche Wilderness with his nature-loving, Catan-playing bros. Despite his being MIA for less than a week, I really missed that sucker. Perhaps it’s the whole absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder thing, or maybe it was sweet relief that he was not engulfed in forest fire flames along with the rest of Colorado, but I all but tackled the poor boy when he came through the door.
I’m pleased, nay, elated to have him home again. And today I celebrate not only his safe to return to the dh, but also my beloved He[ath]ro[binson]’s birthday with this post dedicated to the fellow I’m lucky enough to call my moosh.
To appeal to your vanity, allow me to start my ode to you by declaring my absolute adoration of your smokin’ hot bod. I love your patchy red beard and the way you’re so quick to make fun of it. And I’m particularly fond of your curly brown hair that you never knew you had until we started dating. Folks have been known to call you “Handsome Heath” and I can hardly imagine a better nickname…
…Until I remember the title “Handyman Heath” first dubbed onto you by our college roommate after you put together the umpteenth piece of Ikea furniture in our apartment. You’ve never backed down from a challenge—whether it be fixing a washing machine, building a chicken coop or learning to garden. You’re a trouble-shooter through and through, and I’ve yet to meet another soul as quick to come to the rescue of broken appliance or malfunctioning automobile.
While this audience of readers may not be aware, your friends and family know you’re more than just a pretty face and good pair of hands. You have a curious mind, and a big heart. You’re an inspiring teacher who truly, truly loves what you do and wants only the best for your students. You’re enthusiastic and clever and steadfast, and you live faithfully by the words of Dr. Seuss: “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”
Your humor, while sometimes self-deprecating still manages to be charming, and your eagerness to please the ones you love is earnest and refreshing. You’re silly and you’re kind. You’re inquisitive and you’re confident. You look forward, never back and you inspire those around you to be better. There is no man or beast who isn’t made finer from being in a room with you.
Happiest birthday wishes to you, Heath Robinson. You are loved by many.
I enjoy wine. Scratch that. Wine is the drink I enjoy above all other drinks. Perhaps because it is diverse and can take on so many remarkable forms–thus is capable of suiting my every mood. Sweet. Dry. Fruity. Crisp. Acidic. Buttery. I could go on and on. I love how it tastes, how it feels, how it smells. Bottled or boxed, I’ll take. It also doesn’t hurt that it has a reputation for being somewhat healthy too, so I can feel OK about indulging in the occasional glass or two (or three).
The problem, if you want to call it that, is that until recently I wasn’t really discriminating between types. I was acting like a floozy, not being particularly picky about my suitors. I was just happy to have a date.
Heath, trickster that he is, took it upon himself to change that by organizing a surprise Blind Wine Taste Test. What fun! Home he came with six mystery bottles (4 reds and 2 whites) for me to sample, identify and evaluate. I knew I liked that guy.
The purpose of the test was for me to see not only if I could identify which wines were which from taste alone, but also to see what type of wine I truly enjoy the most. I’ve been to vineyards and done the whole wine tasting thing before, but doing it blind made for an ironically eye-opening experience.
It was stimulating to see if I could detect the hints of berry, chocolate, nuts etc. the labels claim lie within. And I enjoyed getting to have an honest discussion about which glasses worked for me and which didn’t, without being influenced by my atmosphere, the wine’s cost, or my previous notions of what I did and didn’t like. For example, I always thought myself a red girl, but I was blown away both by how much I enjoyed a glass of crisp Pinot Grigio and how much I winced after a sip of Merlot.
I won’t be going into the wine tasting business professionally, as I don’t think I really have the chops or buds sensitive enough to handle the job; but the wine taste test was a super sweet and thoughtful surprise that helped me learn a little about myself and little more about my favorite hobby. Perhaps next week. A cheese taste test is in order.
Ladies of the world, heed my words. Marry not for riches but instead for handiness.
The move to doodlehouse 2.0 (working title), fabulous though it may be, has brought to light how helpless I am and how handy the mister is. I’ve shared tales of Heath’s handiness before, but things are getting a little out of hand. Heath has been taking do-it-yourself projects to an extreme level. Pretty soon we may even decide to forgo paying the city to run electricity to our house and instead elect to develop a system in which our house is powered with a rowboat manned by talking Guinea pigs.
In one week of home ownership, Heath has:
• Replaced 3 light fixtures
• Installed our washer/dryer
• Installed a dryer vent
• Installed bathroom shelving
• Replaced a shower head
• Upped the water pressure
• Unclogged the bathroom sink
• Hooked up the ice maker
• Installed a lock and deadbolt
All done in under a week. And lets not forget about the bed, book shelves, study bench, chicken coop, and media consul all built from the ground up by Handy McBuildson.
Renting a moving truck— $40
Cost to dine out daily while waiting for your new fridge to be delivered—$2380423525
Marrying a champion do-it-yourself Wunderkind–priceless.