My husband is the sweetest man on earth, doing things like walking through Saturday's snowstorm to buy me that cookie I was craving, but he also has a warped sense of humor.
Sunday morning, we were drinking coffee in the living room, admiring the sunlight glittering off the snow and getting ready for The Big Dig of '08. (ow. still ow.) Across the street was our neighbor Dave, struggling with his snowblower.
Now, Dave is kind of an old guy who has grown children and lives alone with his cat. He's the type that spends summer days out on his front porch watching the world go by, waving to neighbors, chatting to people walking past...and smoking. And then smoking some more. When the weather's good and we have the windows open, I can hear him outside in the morning, coughing. I half expect to look out and find him either passed out or collecting a chunk of his blackened lung off the lawn.
So as I watch Dave huffing and puffing out in the cold, I say to Mike, "I'm worried for him. What if he has a heart attack?"
Mike glances outside and without hesitation, says, "Well, if he keels over, you dial 9-1-1 and I'll run across the street and grab the snowblower."