He denies that his habit of leaving his socks on the ground has anything to do with how holey they get.
He eats peanut butter and bacon sandwiches. He calls them cowboy sandwiches. This may be one of the reasons I married him. (Cowboy sandwiches! How can that not melt your heart?!)
He is a very skilled musician. Sometimes I feel excluded from his rockstar world but mostly I just swoon at his talent.
He sings silly songs about the dogs to make me smile. (Think "they call me Stel-la! That's not my name!" sung to the tune of the Ting Tings' "That's Not My Name!") (I'm sorry if that song is stuck in your head now. If it's any consolation, it's totally stuck in mine.)
He stubbornly (and incorrectly) maintains that crunchy is superior to creamy. Therefore, we are a two peanut butter household. We're both okay with that.
He was born in Montreal and says "poutine" with a proper french accent (erm ... sort of like "puh-tsien" instead of "poo-teen.") This means that I now say "poutine" with a proper french accent. It's dreamy when he does it and quite douchey when I do.
It's his 32nd birthday today.
I love this guy.