Happy 22nd Anniversary, Mr Grumpy.

(He even puts up with me trying to do arty shots in cafes)

One minute you're sitting in your parent's loungeroom eating KFC and waiting for your friend Kristen to arrive to do your wedding makeup, and the next you are writing a post about celebrating 22 years of marriage. I'm not sure how that happened but it did. I am now a grown up, with one adult and another nearly adult child, and the makings of a silver fox who thinks it hilarious to hit me in the face with the edge of his pillow each night.

22 years. I could be all soppy and sentimental. He is the love of my life. And I can't imagine my life without him. He makes me feel safe and loved. And I know he has my back and supports all my crazy schemes. That's all true. It's also true that he drives me insane at times and that I have been known to throw that stupid pillow of his, that he thinks is so funny, far across the room. Or hidden it. So he has to search high and low while I end up in increasing fits of laughter. While he laugh/growls "Enough Michelle. Just tell me where you put it." Making me laugh so hard it hurts and I sit perilously on the edge of passing out (so worth it.)

We met at 17 and 18 and I sometimes think we are still stuck there, having not really grown up since that point. Young at heart even if there are now saggy bits and wrinkly bits, belt tilts, and grey/glitter hairs in all the hairy realms of the body. We still giggle and laugh at stupid things. And our youngest has been known to tell us to grow up. Maybe that's why we've lasted so long? Giggle like teenagers at every fart or when the commentators mention Goldsack on the football, and you too can make it to 22 years, or 24 if you count the years pre-marriage.

When people ask how are we still together we have been known to simultaneously say "Apathy." Before pissing ourselves laughing. And maybe that's the key. We laugh. A lot.

Life is hard. There are disappointments and heartache. Laughter makes it all bearable. And finding someone who can laugh with you through it all makes the scales fall more in favour of fun and joy. And less about the hard stuff even when you're smack in the middle of it.

Recently we realised we have morphed into the same person. When Ella Hooper put up a photo of her and Vika and Linda Bull, we both left a comment. The same comment. 8 hours apart.

This is what so long together can do to a couple. Maybe folie a deux is the secret? It seems to work for us.

I am often told I am lucky to have him. I am lucky he's stuck around. I want to punch people who say that. Nine times out of ten the implication is that I am such a horrible burden that it is amazing he's still here and he's pretty much reached saint levels of tolerance and self-sacrifice. Though I'm not sure if saints laugh hysterically when they don't tell you they have done the poo from hell and you step into the bathroom and are nearly taken out by chemical warfare courtesy of their nether regions. I wonder if that's what folk mean when they say I'm lucky.

But I am lucky. And not just because he stuck around. I am lucky that through some fluke of life I met The One way back in 1991. I am lucky that he lets me be me, and even celebrates my crazy. I am lucky that he supports everything I do and even if he doesn't agree he'll defend me to anyone who gives me crap. I am lucky that even when we fight it can end with "I love you, you stupid arsehole." I am lucky that we frequently end up in juvenile giggles over stupid childish things like pillows in faces and "I'm not touching you" when we are both in our 40's. I am lucky that despite his faults and mine we have somehow morphed into the same person who writes the same thing on a singer's Facebook post.

I am lucky he's mine. And I am his. Two whole people who somehow gel together in some messy, imperfect, juvenile and love-filled way.

Happy 22nd Anniversary Mr Grumpy.

Michelle xx

Sing it Nina.

Home

You are my Home.

I know that now. But I don't know if I truly knew that back when we said our I do's.

I had an idea. An idea created before I stepped into the world. An idea created before time and challenge could teach me what truly matters.

Only on reflection can I realise that what I thought was important back then, missed the mark. My heart was in the right place, it was just young and naive, kinda like the two of us. Not that I didn't love you, I most definitely did, but just that I didn't really know what that meant.

Time has never changed my feelings but it has reworked them. Moulding, reshaping, and kneading. It's pulled apart the pieces and reassembled them over and over. Distilling the original brew, until the true essence was finally found.

My home.

The place I feel safe. The place I feel loved. The place I feel comfortable. And the place where I don't have to hide.

You're there when I need you. Through the good and the bad. And no matter how rough it gets, if you're with me, it is always easier to bear.

You accept me, baggage and all. Pile upon pile of disappointments and hurts. Walls built to protect and to hide. But slowly you've unpacked them or put them in their place.


I know I'm not easy to live with. I can be opinionated and at times, unreasonable. My temper, well that may best be described as fiery. And I am stubborn to a fault. I expect you to read my mind and my moods like a fortune-teller, and get angry when you don't. I am more than a little left of centre and live in a world of my own half the time. And I know I frustrate you. Yet despite it all, you are here. Yet despite it all you still love me.

I owe you. More than I can ever express. The last seven years have been hard, not just for me, but for you. Life threw us a curveball and we had to learn to deal with it on the run.

There have been far more downs than ups. But in many ways, it is easier now. What could have broken, has instead strengthened. Things are more stable, even though the circumstances have become rockier.

After so long together there is a rhythm that is just ours. An unspoken language, knowing looks, the finishing of each others sentences, and laughing at shared jokes. All born by times passage and experiences shared.

You are both best friend and lover. Champion and partner in crime.

You reign in my frantic nature, whilst supporting me in all I want to do.

You know me better than anyone and for some baffling reason still, want to be with me.

I don't say thank you enough for all you have given. But I'm grateful every day that you are here.

So

Thank you for letting me know that it's okay to be me.

Thank you for being there to wipe my tears or hold me tight.

Thank you for making me laugh when I can least find something to laugh about.

Thank you for letting me know what it's like to truly feel loved and supported.

Thank you for two beautiful sons.

Thank you for letting me know family.

And thank you for letting me know the true meaning of the word home.

Because you are, and will always be, my home.

Happy 20th Wedding Anniversary, Mr Grumpy.

I Love You

Michelle xx

I loved The Cure's original version of this back in the day, but really love this cover by Adele.

You Get Less For Murder.

17 years ago this past week, I narrowly avoided spinsterhood by becoming Mrs Grumpy. It was a close call really. Some days I look in the mirror and think, "I'm about 39 cats short of becoming crazy cat lady".  Left to my own devices I have no doubt I would have soon become a weird old lady with birds nest hair and a face like a desiccated apple, who spends her days in in depth conversations with her furry brood.

Luckily fate intervened. I met a man who has a more realistic, although what I consider despotic, pet policy than myself, and I have been restricted to one slightly feral and very incontinent cat, and two intellectually challenged great danes. Avoidance of cat crazy is a good reason to get married people. I mean, I still intend to become one of those old ladies who farts, swears like a sailor, tells inappropriate jokes, and uses her age to freely grope hot young men. But that's the kind of crazy we should all aim for in our advancing years.  Oh, and before you ask, 40 cats is the official crazy cat lady decider.  39 all okay.  40 and you're in pathologically unhealthy feline lover territory.

We met long, long, ago, in a galaxy far, far, away known as the Australian Defence Force Academy. Such a romantic venue. Guns, camouflage gear, buzz cuts, marching, cheap alcohol, co-ed dormitories and the smell of gun oil and shoe polish in the air, how could you not find love? I still find it amazing that he saw me in my un-sexy Navy uniform and wanted to date me in the first place. Maybe he had a secret thing for old ladies, because frankly the white female naval uniform looks like a lawn bowls uniform. Hmmm, maybe that explains my prodigious lawn bowls prowess?  All I know is there is nothing more romantic than a guy who is willing to clean your rifle, and spit polish your shoes.

17 years. 17 long, oh my lord how long, wonderful years. Being the sentimental type, Mr Grumpy loves to sing me AC/DCs, Jail break, whenever we discuss our years of wedded bliss.

Jury found him guilty

Gave him sixteen years in hell

Bwahahahahahahahaha. He's a funny man. You should have seen him when our 16th year rolled round. He was in sarcastic nirvana. But that's what you get when you marry a man with a fondness for flannel, scifi, red wine and 70s and 80s mullet rock. I should also mention that he wanted to have Motley Crew's, Kick Start My Heart, as our wedding song. Needless to stay he was disabused of this idea rather swiftly. Mind you considering we ended up with the gag inducing, hideous theme to The Body Guard, I Will Always Love You, (don't ask, long story) as our song it would have been a better choice.

It's amazing we've lasted.  Or as my delightful brother in law said in his toast, "lets hope they stay together for a while", (yes BIL, I will be milking that one for ever).  We were married young by today's standards, me 20 him 21. Mind you we met when were 17 and 18 respectively so we'd been together for a while. Ahhh the stupidity of youth. Add to that and I was up the duff with our first by my 21st (oh yeah party on down, 5mths pregnant, mastitis, antibiotics, and still having morning sickness, every girls dream come true) and we have repeatedly bucked the life milestones trend.

It hasn't all been roses and candy canes. We fight. We yell. There are days where I would gladly put his junk in a garlic press and crush down, hard. Or put his head in the loo and flush and flush and flush and...... I'm sure he thinks the same about me. But that's the beauty of marriage and it doesn't mean I love him any less (though I do wish he would outgrow his childish delight in the act of dutch ovening me, or farting in the grocery isle and running off so everyone thinks it's me).

Marriage is about putting up with the crappiness, and thoughts of homicide, because it is generally outweighed by the good stuff. The fact he remembers the day we had our first date. The fact he knows I hate carnations (bad teenage boy baggage) and has never ever brought me any. The fact he knows exactly how to make my cup of coffee or only buys the brand of chocolate I like. The fact he knows the exact amount of Vegemite I like on my toast (for my international readers that's just waving the Vegemite covered knife in the vicinity of the toast, not thick like peanut butter which is a disgusting rookie mistake). The fact that he still likes my boobs, even though they have gone from a B cup to a singlet (his favourite saying is “more than a mouthful is a waste”, Shakespeare eat your heart out). The fact he sat in an MRI and held my foot because I was so nervous. The fact he accepts my quirks and just shakes his head. That is what love and marriage are all about.

So happy Anniversary Mr Grumpy, and many thanks for still thinking my butt is worthy of grabbing in public.

Cheers
The Old Ball and Chain Michelle :)

For those who like their love posts a we bit more soppy, I have managed to do it once before in an ode to Mr Grumpy.

Just for Mr Grumpy I give you, AC/DC's classic, Jailbreak (1976).