Owen and I have been together for a long time.
Long enough to have pissed each other off, on occasion.
(On several occasions.)
Hard to believe, but there are things about me that bother Owen.
The way I will spend our last dollar on a book, and act incredulous when he gets mad about it.
The fact that I hate celery, and refuse to let him put it into any of his (awesome) cooking.
My nearly ESP-like way of knowing the exact moment he’s invested in a TV show, then changing the channel.
Make no mistake, though, he irritates the fuck out of me, occasionally.
He’d always wait, a minimum of 3 years, to tell me he’d hated a hairstyle. (As in, “Remember the ‘Rachel’-do you tried to rock in ’94? Did. Not. Work.”)
Then, it took him another 10 years to slowly leak the details of what he thought might make a decent hairdo.
“I like you in long hair.”
“I don’t really enjoy bangs on you. They make your face look all squished.”
“I like to see your ears. I don’t trust people when I can’t see their ears.” (That one makes me want to look at our health plan, see how much psychiatric coverage we have.)
So, I’ve put it all together. Using his guidelines, this is what I’m pretty sure Owen wants to see on me:
OK, baby, I’ll do it for you…