I wrangled this tag from MiM’s page after protesting that it shouldn’t be limited to women with husbands. ‘Tisn’t fair! I said, stamping a virtual foot, and so poor MiM was obliged to open it up to me too. Without further ado, therefore, let me get down to boasting:
- He cooks me breakfast while I labor to haul my bulk out of bed. Not any slap-dash goop, mind you. Sunny side up with bacon or sausages, sauteed mushrooms, a slice of tomato for colour, toast done just right, butter, cheese, mustard, marmalade, juice, the works. Arranged perfectly and presented with a smile. He’d serve it in bed too, if I didn’t think that was gross. And then I whine about being a blimp.
- When Zubin Mehta was in town this past March, concert tickets were being sold at an auditorium near my home. Except, we were both pretty sure they’d be sold out before the sun rose. I told him to forget going and slept well into my Saturday morning, and was woken up gently by his voice on the phone asking me if I’d care to join him in the queue. The man had driven more than an hour from his then suburban home to stand in line before 7 a.m. and patiently waited for the four hours it took to get to the ticket counter. I joined him only for the last two.
- Ruskin Bond is to me what Shahrukh Khan is to millions of swooning idiots women around the world. And I will never quite get over the fact that my Boy whisked me away on an elaborately planned surprise holiday to Mussoorie so I could meet the man of my literary dreams. There’s still a tiny rent in my heart from all the happiness it held on that unforgettable day.
- Once, for a reason I can only vaguely recall now (yes, we’re quite goldfishy that way), I jetted off to the other side of the country to put some mental and physical distance between what I was going through at the time. Our man promptly got on a flight and landed up where I was and proceeded to ensure I’d never be too far away again. (Not in a psychopath way, I assure you. Very romantic and quite, quite crazy, but I can’t talk about it here just yet.)
- You probably have this coming out of your ears, but for the sake of possible newbies on this blog, I’m a South Bombay girl through and through. My Bombay spans from Colaba to Worli and suburban shock rapidly escalates as we go past Bandra. That said, I travelled to his remote (albeit beautiful) suburb every weekend for 16 months to spend time with him but Meru cabs are now on the brink of bankruptcy because my Boy has moved to South Bombay. For me. His 10-minute drive to work is now at least an hour and he won’t get to see his folks as frequently, but he’s made the move without any expectations and his ability to give makes me wonder what I did to deserve him. *end of mush*
- Oh wait, I lied. I’m going to sneak in one more: When it comes to maintaining a tidy and clean home, I’m a bit of a drill seargent. I admit it. So I’m especially proud of him because he realizes it’s important to me and has actually cleaned up his act, pun totally intended, and *trumpet blast* wears slippers in his apartment because I’ve finally convinced him it’s the clean thing to do!!! Do you know how happy that makes me??? I’m so beside myself with joy, I almost forget to scrub the decorative grill on the post box with its own dedicated toothbrush.
Sheesh. I’m done. Someone scoop up the sap and pour me into a jug, please.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi