Today is my wedding anniversary with my wife Ursula--aka, Ursie B; aka, Ursie Beez; aka, Ursie da bomb; aka, Ursie da mom. We've been married for four years now (traditional gift: fruit and flowers), though we've been "together" for nearly fourteen (traditional gift: ivory). I guess I could have made her a fruit salad or carved her a statue...but I settled on ordering her something I know she wants from Amazon.
Marriage is a full-time job (though we didn't realize our wedding day was "9-2-5" until after we'd booked it) and parenthood is like working unpaid overtime, so it's easy for me to forget to let her know how special and important she is to me. But hot damn, by the power of the Internets, I'm going to let her know right here and now!
First of all, Urs is a knockout. I nag her about how much time she wastes in front of her vanity getting made up each day, because I think she's just as beautiful when she wakes up as when she's on her way out.
And she's incredibly resourceful. She's a woman who knows how to get things done. If it weren't for her, my bills would never get paid, I'd never make any appointments, and I probably wouldn't have many long-term friends. Hell, I defer most of my paycheck, direct-deposit style, to her bank account, knowing that she'll take care of business, where I'd only misplace bills and compile late fees. I've seen her make salesmen squirm on more than one occasion, because she always knows the right deals and their mysterious price-hiking tricks; I've seen her outwit car salesmen on more than one sweet deal.
And she's tough. I don't mean kick your ass tough, though she IS that, too. She's strong willed and knows how to get what she wants. And if sweet talk and good looks don't work, she can intimidate like nobody's business. With one quick (and angry) phone call, she got a real estate broker to give up a sizable chunk of his commission, after he screwed up our closing date and made a mistake on the contract. You can't tell her she's wrong (even if she is), unless you're ready for a battle.
But she's also a sweetheart--a puddle of emotion, in fact. After those battles, whether she's right or wrong, she's all tears and apologies. She drives herself crazy--makes herself a wreck--trying to please all of the people all of the time. (But don't you dare tell her can't do that.)
She's a great mom. Not just to our daughter Alexa, but to me as well. (I mean, sure, my own mom is great, too, but she gets her own holiday--and I'd probably forget to call or send a card each year, if not for Urs watching my back.) Urs takes care of me in that same nurturing, protective, taking-care-of-the-things-I-can't-or-won't-do-for-myself way a mother would...and she does it all because she wants to, not because she has to. She spent the first year of our daughter's life working from home, because we couldn't afford to lose the second income and she would have anyone else raising our little girl--which meant she was working two jobs, while I only had the one (not counting what I said up top about marriage, as well...sorry, math isn't my thing).
She loves to cook, and she does it well. This whole "low-iodine diet" fiasco of mine has given her an exciting new focus on that hobby, and so far, with the help of some balsamic vinegar and a few choice seasonings, she's made my restrictive diet a piece of cake.
(God, I miss cake.)
She's got a great laugh and a hot body.
She can get along with anyone.
She calls me Honey Bear...sometimes even during an argument.
But let me put this all into a better context for this blog:
She's my Mary Jane.
She's my Lois Lane.
And she gave me my Super Girl.
That wife of mine...she's my Wonder Woman!
Happy Anniversary, babe. I love you.
(Don't worry--that's me under the Spidey mask.)