Where was I?
Right. And he can fly a plane. Or he would fly a plane, if he had a plane to fly. Turns out that after much careful deliberation and serious research and a drive all the way down to the other side of Calgary and back, he now, in fact, has a plane to fly. So help me.
Normally I would be pounding out the story in great detail, outlining the hours spent wringing hands over the decision, the coordination of the sale, the fork lift, the hacksaw, the box-spring mattress, the 78 year old British expat who's accent simply makes the story sparkle... but I'm too busy hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Husband bought a plane. With wings and an engine. And two seats. To fly. I love this man so much I can barely breathe, literally, but I have watched him Hulk out on a keyboard because "the volume control is sticky." I don't know if now is the time for the "unconditional support" speech or the "I'm only getting in that thing if you swear off sugar" speech. Probably a little of both.
Husband is capable, clever and cunning. He can fix, build or finagle anything and that apparently includes a two-seater Zodiac 601 HD in bright blue. He's so damn happy to have a project to work on that I can't help but be excited right along with him, even if it means I eventually have to take a ride in the thing I have secretly named "Smurfette". Husband's enthusiasm builds a fire in my soul that fills my days with so much warmth and light that my joy is visible from space.
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