D is diverse, indeed. Decisions, decisions! After much deliberation, I’ve determined that today’s blog post will be dedicated to my DH. In some people’s cute little corners of the net, that stands for Dear Husband. In my case, I like to affectionately refer to him as my Dirty Hippie.
My husband is a Deadhead. By the time we met, he’d been to over 100 Grateful Dead shows (I’d been to exactly 1). One summer he bought boxes of Blow Pops and sold them in the parking lots to help pay for “tour”. I know his favorite Dead show, although he wasn’t in attendance (Cornell ’77). You see, it’s the little details about someone. Quirky little details. They’re fun to remember.
Because he followed the Dead for so many years, he understands the importance of “tour”. So when his crazy metalhead wife decided she wanted to follow Iron Maiden to another continent, he didn’t bat an eye.
One might ask: can a Deadhead and a Metalhead peacefully co-exist? Definitely! My DH’s theory: most deadheads he knew in college had actually been metalheads in high school. Why? Because at the time, when synthesizers were all the 80s rage, the metal bands were the only musicians on the scene that knew how to actually play instruments. Makes sense – discerning ears, discriminating tastes. Dead serious details!
My DH is a big picture kind of guy – he manages multiple touring bands and he plans festivals for thousands of people to enjoy. The minute one festival is over, he’s already thinking about next year’s. Sometimes his head is so far out on the horizon, it’s hard to reign him back in. It’s a running joke that he doesn’t always “see” what’s in front of him. Yes, it took probably 4 introductions to me (by mutual friends and even by himself) to finally remember who I was. And yes, there was actually a time, early in our courtship, when he walked right by me in a club. My friends were incredulous: “Are you SURE that’s the guy you’ve been telling us about that you wanted us to meet?” Um, yeah. He’s got a bit of tunnel vision at times, especially when he’s working. On the horizon or in the tunnel.
But when he makes it up to surface, he blinks and looks around…and he remembers the little details. Like when I recently landed a literary agent. It was close to Valentine’s Day, and so his gift was a beautiful pen, lathed from “celluloid”, and plated in platinum. You know, for signing contracts someday (his words). It’s heavy in the hand and elegant and nothing I would ever splurge on for myself. I’m almost scared to use it (definitely scared to lose it).
And now, as my birthday approaches, he is actually giving me the gift of…detail. Yes, he admitted to me yesterday (as he tried to come up with excuses as to why he needed my car for 4-5 hours) that he is having my car detailed. My car is getting its very own Spa Day! It needs a Spa Day more than I do, after 6 years of summer festival grime and countless 800 mile loops to NYC and back.
At first I thought, cool – I would love a clean car! And better the professionals than me, trying to scrub the drek that’s been building up for 98K miles! Then I thought: uh oh, I am going to have to clean it out before they can detail it. Great, a present that makes more work for me. But he thought of that detail too…and did it for me. I am dazzled!