My husband is a liar and a cheat! (And that’s why I love him)

Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater.

Every day, Papa Bear bravely faces the absolutely insane traffic on our roads, stoically driving to and from clients who really should be able to switch on their own computers themselves. Even though he can fix most things through remote access (or even just mind power, it seems!), his clients don’t feel fixed until he sees them face to face. So off he goes, trundling into the unknown and, really, risking his life against inordinately high traffic accident statistics, to bring home his share of the bacon. And (to my infinite relief), every day he comes home. Alive and well. Leaving his frustrations at the door and presenting us all with a big, fat, happy grin and his infamous “Hallooo da house!”.

Every day he cheats death. And I’m delighted with that! (and in reference to the subtitle, most days he eats pumpkin, too, and he never complains. I am grateful for that, as well).

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

I am battling with severe perioral dermatitis. I have deep, ugly forehead furrows from years of Tourette’s ticcing; and I’m getting grey hairs. I’m underendowed and “blessed” with a muffin top. But every time Papa Bear sees me, he tells me I’m beautiful. Now don’t get me wrong: I am happy with the way I am right now. I’ve earned these stripes, so to speak, and I wouldn’t change the memories that put them there. So what if they left a few scars? However, I have eyes; I have mirrors. I know what I look like. And beautiful it ain’t. Fine? Yes, okay. But every day Papa Bear looks at me as if he’s just seen his muse (he even calls me that!), and tells me I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Every day he tells me sweet little lies. And I feel just like that: the most beautiful woman in the world.

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