He is a crafty one, that Didge. Last night he informed me that for the past several weeks he's been in direct violation of the no-smoking-in-the-house rule. "Why do you think I've been so impatient for you to go to bed?", he asked, grinning and wiggling around in his chair like a deceptive 6'3 elf. "How the hell have you been getting away with this?", I asked. "Easy. I just fumigate the place and air it all out before I come to bed!", he bubbled, grinning and wiggling some more. I love his boyish good looks. Hell, I love everything about the man, for the most part. Seriously. I have one of the most adorable husbands on the planet, and I know this. But he is also one of the most devious beings I've yet to take on, a master at getting around any household rule, and one of the most stubborn men who has ever wiggled and giggled across the face of this planet.
Imagine Peter Pan with devil horns listening to Motley Crue. There. That's Didgeridoo Boy.
But I have to admit - until he told me, I had no idea. And, strangely enough, I can't be mad at him.
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