My husband is an amazing guy.
He can fix anything, from elevators to cars to toilets to air conditioning to dryers.
He can also build anything. Bookshelves, desks, dog gates, chain-link fences, vegetable gardens, entire houses.
He's 6 feet tall and has rough, workman's hands that can install a home elevator or drive me wild. Muscular arms that make me swoon. A beard that has a life of its own.
He also has nail polish on his toes.
The other day, he got home from work way earlier than I did (not an unusual situation). "What have you done this afternoon?" I asked him.
"Oh... stuff," he answered.
"Yeah? Like what?" (He is never that retiscent to blabber about everything he has done on any given day, and this seemed a little peculiar.)
"Oh, well, I took the dogs for their rabies shots, I returned the movies to Blockbuster ... and ... I ... uh ... got a pedicure."
I burst out laughing. I had introduced him to pedicures some months ago just for kicks. We had parallel pedis that day, and he didn't seem all that thrilled about it. (Me? I'd give up my first-born to have someone rub my feet like that. Uh, just kidding. Sorta.)
Anyway ... I laughed. He laughed too, especially when he said, "Yeah, I was just too lazy to clip my own toenails."
Turns out he was right there anyway. The nail place is right next door to the vet's, so while our pups were getting updated on their vaccinations, the wonderhubby was getting his feet pampered.
It wasn't until later that he admitted the second part: He also had a manicure (no polish, thank you). I nearly peed my pants. Truly.
He just looked at me and grinned.
"Yes ... I've been primped," he smirked.
Yes, he had. What a guy!