The way to a man’s heart

To attend my mother’s wedding, Rob had to work an 12-hour overnight shift the previous Sunday, followed by his regular 8-hour shift Monday. Then he traveled with me on Thursday, listened to his iPod during the brief rehearsal and regaled my mother’s friends with fart and ass jokes during the rehearsal dinner.

Friday, he wandered the streets of Studio City from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m., while the final floral arrangements were made and my mother’s and my nails manicured. (I have buyer’s remorse about the color of mine, but I don’t think it ruined the wedding.)

Then there was the wedding and the morning-after brunch, and then I told him we could do whatever he wanted to do with our remaining 24 hours in L.A. He chose Halloween shops and three separate visits to Amoeba Music. And an hour-and-a-half Thai massage, which was a splendid choice from my P.O.V., because mine was heavenly.

I was exhausted and cranky on the drive home from the airport, but I let him stop at Half-Price Books in Seattle.

He called twice this morning from work. The first time to see how Isis was when I picked her up from the kennel. (After racing around me in circles, she embodied the expression “hangdog.” I hope she’s just tired, and not a changed dog.)

The second time, he asked how I was doing at work after the eventful weekend. “Are you missing anyone?” he asked. “Like me?”

I think that means he was missing me!

It hadn’t occurred to me to miss him before then. I was busily uploading photos of him from the wedding. But I miss him now. And I really miss Isis.