The Beard's Bookshelf

The Beard’s Bookshelf

I write a lot about The Beard. Of course, I do. He’s my partner, lover and friend, not necessarily in that order. The Beard by trade is an engineer. Not only by trade, the engineering mindset is in his bones. Folks with engineers in their lives are nodding as they read this. The Beard is a tech geek, a math geek and a comic geek. I’m only one of those things. To say that I appreciate his genius most days is putting it mildly. His genius is also quite irritating some days. I might even say enraging.

For complete opposites, we are distinctly tuned to the same frequency on some things. It’s an odd pairing, but it works. I never thought about how other people perceive us as a match. Our friends and family haven’t ever commented on it, but I guess it’s because they know us. They’ve seen us in our natural habitat. I’ve been thinking about how we appear to strangers the last couple of days. I went to the dentist. Yep, that’s what prompted this meditation on our marriage. The dentist.

I switched to The Beard’s dentist. It’s a matter of geography. All of our dealings have shifted west, but my dentist was east. It grew to be inconvenient. Yesterday was my new patient appointment. I was surprised by The Beard’s choice and preference of dentist. The office is a bit hippy dippy and crazy informal. I add that The Beard hates being chatted at, especially by strangers i.e. bank tellers, grocery clerks or anyone he feels is slowing down his process. Me included some days. This new office is chatty and down right cutesy.

I had another professional appointment later in the day, so I dressed accordingly. Navy slacks, three quarter sleeved blouse and heels. I channeled some Donna Reed without the pearls. After filling out the new patient paperwork, a petite blonde ushered me deeper into the shabby chic office. The requisite meet and greet followed.

“Oh, look at you, all tattooed.” She gushed.
“Yep, that’s me,” I said, used to this kind of comment both complimentary and not. I sat in the chair noting it was cracked. The Beard likes this place?
“You’re changing dentists. Were you having a problem with your previous dentist?” She asked.
“Nope, just moving things this direction for ease of travel,” I said.
“What do you do?” She moved to a computer to take notes.
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? What do you write?” She looked at me.
“My first novel is a thriller about genetic engineering and I’m working on the sequel.” I pulled out a postcard. “That’s me.”
She read the blurb and oohed the cover. “I’m going to get this! It looks great.” Remembering the job, she moved back to the information sheet.
She read further down. “Oh, you’re related to The Beard? How?”
“He’s my husband.”
She jerked up and stared at me. “Seriously? But he’s so…..” She trailed off. She waved me over. “You’re like a rock star and he’s…..” She dropped off again. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “Seriously.”
She leaned out of the cubicle. “Hey, you guys, come here.” Her compatriots, another hygienist and the receptionist joined us. She gestured at me. “Guess who she’s married to?”
The hygienist guessed. “The guy with the vests?”
The receptionist offered another choice. “The guy with the nose rings?”
Blonde gal shook her head with glee. “The Beard. Her husband is The Beard.”
Now all three stared at me. I tried not to laugh.
“But he’s so….” The hygienist trailed off.
The blonde agreed. “I know, right?”
The receptionist regrouped. “He is good looking.” She admitted to me. “He’s just so…..nice.”
“I think so.” I finally contributed.
“He IS stylish.” The blonde added. “I wouldn’t ever have put him together with you.”
“This must sound awful.” The other hygienist realized. “Wow, well….good for him.”
I took it as a compliment. “Thanks.”

My Bookshelf

My Bookshelf

Of course, I posted an abbreviated version to Facebook. The likes hit the double digits, and my cousin/cover artist provided a fabulous photoshop version of The Beard as the singer of a rock band. Shirtless and long haired to boot. Priceless. The Beard commented, “Phhht, they each better buy a book after that.” I know his feelings were a bit bruised because the words those women avoided were nerdy, geeky, and unassuming. He’s still in the mindset that nice is the kiss of death. While all true, I reminded him that I love those things about him.

It’s those qualities and many others that I depend. He supports my writing career, not only emotionally, but in many concrete ways. His kindness and gentle spirit temper my bloodthirsty impulses. Good thing too.
I’ve always been a storyteller, but I’m a writer with his help. Absolutely, he’s a snappy dresser…who do you think picks out his clothes?