On better days

I promised a happier entry sometime this week. Here goes:

I don't have my bed and my clothes in the same apartment.
I don't have a familiar job with an easy commute.
I don't have all the time to do the things I want to do.

What I do have, however, is a girl who stayed up past 2 on Sunday night destroying her arms and hands with a heavy steamer, trying to strip wallpaper so that we can move in sooner. A girl who makes dinner for me almost every night, all the while juggling a full-time job, endless home repairs, and (until yesterday) a car that could hardly get out of the driveway. A girl who watches movies with me even though I fall asleep in the first half hour every time; who gets me gifts for occasions as trivial as the one-month anniversary of our firt date and my last day at the Library; who adopts calling the New York AL baseball team the Satans so as not to offend me; who suffered through scores of Scrabble losses before beating me (which she does more often now), but kept playing and obeying my "no touching during Scrabble" rule; who lets me make fun of her age but rarely makes fun of mine; who makes time for my family, and even time away from hers. A girl who puts up with my whining in futile hope that it will someday stop.

And the Red Sox are World Champions. I've got it pretty good.