She got hers (her very first) on her left wrist. In September, Paulette drove down to meet me at a Chicago tattoo parlor. And now it may very well be my last (time shall tell). She suggested the word “more.” This was based on an essay in the book where I mention that “more” was my first spoken word (true). A few weeks after publication in August, I heard from a 62-year-old librarian in Milwaukee named Paulette.
I was totally serious about this and encouraged submitters to be serious as well. In my most recent memoir (written entirely before my diagnosis), I invited readers to send in suggestions for matching tattoos, the idea being that author and reader would be bonded by ink. If he sounds like a prince and our relationship seems like a fairy tale, it’s not too far off, except for all of the regular stuff that comes from two and a half decades of playing house together. Did I mention that he is incredibly handsome? I’m going to miss looking at that face of his. My guess is you know enough about him now. (He knows I love all the flavors but white.) This is a man who emerges from the minimart or gas station and says, “Give me your palm.” And, voilà, a colorful gumball appears. This is a man who, because he is always up early, surprises me every Sunday morning by making some kind of oddball smiley face out of items near the coffeepot: a spoon, a mug, a banana. Here is the kind of man Jason is: He showed up at our first pregnancy ultrasound with flowers.
He also has an affinity for tiny things: taster spoons, little jars, a mini-sculpture of a couple sitting on a bench, which he presented to me as a reminder of how our family began. If you’re looking for a dreamy, let’s-go-for-it travel companion, Jason is your man. After a long day, there is no sweeter joy than seeing him walk in the door, plop a grocery bag down on the counter, and woo me with olives and some yummy cheese he has procured before he gets to work on the evening’s meal. On the subject of food - man, can he cook. If our home could speak, it would add that Jason is uncannily handy. Those who know him - or just happen to glance down at the gap between his dress slacks and dress shoes - know that he has a flair for fabulous socks. Our young adult sons, Justin and Miles, often borrow his clothes.
The following list of attributes is in no particular order because everything feels important to me in some way. I have never been on Tinder, Bumble or eHarmony, but I’m going to create a general profile for Jason right here, based on my experience of coexisting in the same house with him for, like, 9,490 days.įirst, the basics: He is 5-foot-10, 160 pounds, with salt-and-pepper hair and hazel eyes. But when he knocked on the door of my little frame house, I thought, “Uh-oh, there is something highly likable about this person.”īy the end of dinner, I knew I wanted to marry him. I had precisely zero expectations about this going anywhere. When I moved back home to Chicago, John - who thought Jason and I were perfect for each other - set us up on a blind date. I went to college out east and took my first job in California. Let me explain: My father’s best friend since summer camp, “Uncle” John, had known Jason and me separately our whole lives, but Jason and I had never met.
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