We planted our garden yesterday. It's a dirty, detailed job, but well worth it. My husband tills the rows, my older boys lime them, Dad tills again, then I come along behind planting seeds. In the hot sun and little wind, it was a rather long day. At one point, my husband and I were working side by side. I looked at his sweaty face and said:
"Do you come here often?"
him: "Only once a year."
me: "Are you married?"
me (gathering up courage): "Wanna get together after this is done?" (I guess his being married didn't bother me too much)
him: no words...just his typical snickers of affection and joy
You've gotta have a little bit of fun in these situations. My flirtatious words were born out of reaction to his chivalrous garden acts. There is one section of the garden that has the freshest chicken manure. It is disgustingly mucky, swarming with flies and you sink a foot deep into it as you walk through it. I had to plant corn seeds there...or at least I was rethinking planting them there. My prince charming, covered in a fragrant mixture of "Eau de Lime et Manure", stopped the tiller and seeded the pit of death for me. I heard him telling our oldest son, "I'm not letting your mom work in that mess."
All the roses and chocolate in the world wouldn't smell as attractive as that man, at that moment. Even the Old Spice guy on his white horse doesn't smell like my man does.
Our post planting rendez vous included bon fire roasted hot dogs and smores, and dinner accompaniment was crickets and laughing children. He's got me for life.