I got some unexpected packages in the mail today; they had Phantom books in them. While this isn't strange in and of itself, what is strange is that I didn't order them. It turns out that John did, as my birthday present.

This is the man who has been prone to calling me crazy, insane, unbalanced, weird, and ridiculous since the moment I embarked on my zany grad school quest. He clearly doesn't understand why I would want to do it, what possible point it could have, or otherwise see any redeeming value in the whole project.  He's not big on dissertational studies, having been raised on a firm understanding that ladies are for the making and maintenance of babies.

But, he bought me books for it, without being asked to or hinted at. Because he loves me and wants me to be happy even when he has no idea what insanity I'm up to. So thank you, babe. It means the world to me.

(Incidentally, he bought me the ones he thought were the coolest... so, Sherlock Holmes [the Meyer] and a bunch of tabby cats in opera clothes [the Wood]. That's my baby.)