Dear Husband,
Thanks so much for taking me out to eat tonight just to get me out of this over-sized, Dutch oven (A.K.A air-conditionerless sweat box) we call our home. Because the heat was making me behave as if I had Charlie Sheen's tiger blood racing through my veins, and the thought of turning on the oven to cook dinner was about to put me over the edge. Even if it was only Subway, sitting in an air-conditioned restaurant after this scroching hot day with my tuna sub and sharing a large Dr. Pepper with you was pretty much the bee's knees.
Love, B
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