We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. It isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems – the ones that make you truly who you are – that you’re ready to find a life-long mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person – someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”
- From Daily Afflictions, by Andrew Boyd

Tobermory and I don’t do Valentine’s Day. Neither of us are fond of commercialised rituals. But I like this quote, and it’s an appropriate day to trot it out.

After all, Tobes is a problem I love having.

I got home this afternoon, and ambled into the bathroom where my beloved husband was in the shower.
“It’s OK, love, I’m not watching, you don’t need to sing the little “I’m washing my bollocks” tune.”
“It’s the theme from Super Mario World, world 1, stage 1, on the super Nintendo.”
“.. er, if you say so, but you sing it to yourself every time you wash your bits.”
There was silence.
“I do?”
“Yes, love. It’s your little bollock-washing jingle. Didn’t you know?”
“I had NO IDEA.“

It’s been an interesting year. I spent the last couple of hours of it curled up in the snug, with Tigra and wine, with the other cats periodically checking in to make sure I wasn’t scared of the fireworks. Not a bad way to see in the new year.

I’ve gone for four or five work trips – training users on software, rolling Windows 7, assorted other bits and pieces. I’ve changed roles internally, and moved into a department I’ve wanted to be in ever since I started at this company. So far it’s going well.

I’ve danced, joined a performance group, entered Nationals, gone out socially, started teaching. I am proud of my dance achievements this year.

Operation 2012: Clean/Organise/Tidy All The Things has continued. We’re still not great at keeping the kitchen immaculate, but we’re a lot faster at returning order to the chaos (as the underlying mess isn’t present now). The spare rooms are usable, the garage is mostly free of crap, the usual dumping grounds for junk have remained fairly junk free. It’ll take time, but we’re on the right track.

I haven’t mentioned much of it online – some things just don’t belong on the Internet – but Tobermory’s had ongoing health issues, which created work issues, which he’s dealt with like a champ. It’s a work in progress, but I am damned proud of what he’s achieved personally this year. And I am proud of the way we have worked together as a couple. It’s been hard yards, but we can both be proud of the outcome.

It’s been a complete shit of a year on occasions, and there have been amazing highlights too. I’d like 2013 to be a bit less dramatic; but on balance I’m proud of my 2012. That’s a pretty good way to exit the year.

In the car on the way home, I pulled out a looong white hair. (I have long hair. Everyone knows this. This was a full length, perfect white, hair.)

While ranting about the woes of being an adult, I realised that Tobermory was kind of smiling. This was unacceptable mid-rant, of course, so I demanded an explanation.

“It’s just … it’s kind of nice. We’re actually growing old together.”

Husband points: +18297384739. Rant: deflated.

I got into bed about an hour after Tobermory had passed out last night. He was lying on top of the duvet, so I snuggled under my bit.

“You have enough duvet? Fine, THEN CAN I HAVE SOME.”
“You’re lying on your bit, you muppet!”

After a bit of a duvet-related dispute, I extracted the duvet from under his person and covered him up.

“‘m awake now. You hit me in head with duvet. Why?”

I might have had more sympathy if I’d actually hit him, or indeed if he’d actually woken up at any point in this conversation. Instead, I got the giggles, which elicited a protracted set of complaints about my laughing at him. THis didn’t help me not have the giggles. Particularly when he started poking me in the side, with the stated intent of stopping me from shaking the bed.

I eventually calmed down enough to start reading the internet on my phone for a bit. Then his hand shot out, grabbed me by the wrist, and dragged me over to his side of the bed for headpats.

After a few minutes, headpats weren’t good enough, so he launched himself over the bed to me – literally, there was air between the husband and the mattress – snuggled in, and went back to what I assumed was sleep.

Five minutes later – “where Boomer? Boomer OK? want Boomer. You go check he OK.”

I knew as a fact that the cat crying outdoors was Gingerbum being beaten up by over-the-road’s tabby. Neither cat is ours, but apparently our section is the nominated arena for neighbourhood feline disputes. Still, it was easier to get out of bed than explain all that, so I did. Confirmed that Boomer was indeed sacked in his chair in the living room, Tigra was in the snug, and Chicken was in the bedroom with us. I hopped back into bed again, and resumed internet on my phone.

A few minutes later: thump. I reached out and attempted to locate my husband. I did not locate my husband. I located an absence of my husband.

I turned on the light.

There are very few things more amusing than discovering your husband has fallen out of bed, cuddling his pillow like a teddybear, having landed on his back on the carpet, with his head in the cats’ empty water bowl.

One of the few things that IS more amusing is said husband arguing with you that he is actually STILL IN BED, and using the location of his feet – still tucked up on the mattress under the duvet – as evidence in his favour.

I attempted to take his pillow away.
“You no take blanket!”
“It’s not a blanket, it’s your pillow!”
“Not a pillow! I in bed, is duvet!”
“Darling, you’re ON THE FLOOR. ON THE CARPET. ON YOUR BACK.”
He wiggled around a bit and stretched out a hand.
“Why am I on the floor?”
“You fell out of bed.”
“Can’t have. You must have pushed me.”

Helplessly giggling, I did eventually convince him to get back into bed, and we settled down for the night.

“I like hearing you laugh. Worth falling out of bed for a proper Mahal laugh.”