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Captain OCD often surprises me with pretty little flower arrangements, most of the time just a few blooms in a tiny vase with a bit of ancillary greenery that wouldn’t have occurred to me to use. Usually they’re composed of flowers I don’t even know we have because he’ll take them from a hanging basket or a weed or a tree that I didn’t know had flowers, so they’re that much more of a pleasant surprise. He’ll go outside in the morning, sometimes with a flashlight, to find a flower he remembers seeing at the end of a clump of ornamental grass. His eye is what I wish mine were: organic and natural and creative. I try to do what he does and the result looks like something the dog might have tossed together while wearing boxing gloves.

Yesterday I came home to this on the bathroom counter:


Not till tonight did it occur to me that we don’t have any rose bushes. His sister, however, who lives next door and left for work before he did yesterday, does.

The reason I’m replacing my fuel pumps and not him? Because the same guy who composes beautiful flowers into such delicate, happy arrangements doesn’t see why one needs anything more than muscles, a pry bar, an adjustable wrench, and a ten-pound sledge to work on a car.