There's a creepy guy in my bedroom. He has a mullet, tacky gold chain, spiked hair on top, and apparently marinaded in his cologne this morning. No, I haven't found myself a mulleted lover to have redneck sex with while my husband is at work. He's fixing the ceiling. The ceiling that a roofer poked his finger through yesterday while trying to pinpoint the exact location of a roof leak. Said roofer was in the attic, and Tim was directly below him in the back. The roofer was yelling, "I can't find the spot!" Then a finger popped through the ceiling and he yelled, "Found it!" No kidding, Einstein. The roof problem wasn't a major one, thank goodness, and patching the ceiling is taking a lot longer than fixing the leak.
Speaking of redneck love, Valentine's Day was this weekend, and Tim did a good job. He always does. I got a dozen of the prettiest roses imaginable-- I mean they were really, really pretty-- and a ton of chocolate. All of this was presented in a very romantic fashion that I won't go into detail about. My husband rocks. I would even love him if he had a mullet. Probably.