My husband is quite easily my best friend, running the gamut daily from hero to butthead and back again.  He has a habit of doing the impossible.  Long before we could afford one, I wanted a piano to teach the kids the basics.  One day my husband calls me from the road saying he got me a piano.  “I know you don’t like uprights, but I got a good deal on it.”    You need to know my husband to understand his logic, so when he says he got a good deal on something, I start counting the kids to make sure they are all there and he didn’t trade one of them.   “No, uprights aren’t my favorite, but I don’t care what kind you got as long as it has keys and I can start teaching the kids what to do with them.  What a great surprise!”  I ran to the door when I heard his truck, opening it expecting to see an ugly, chipped eyesore in that depressingly dark shade of brown I associated with uprights when I saw my husband and a couple of guys he had hired to help him unload from the back of his truck a bright, beautiful, intricately carved piano, the likes of which I had never seen nor dreamt of ever owning.  When he saw me standing there, about to cry, he triumphantly asked, “How’s that. WOMAAN!?!”  I met his triumph with the usual sarcasm despite my obvious enthusiasm, “It’s no baby grand, but I can get used to it.”  It was devoid of the chips and cracked keys I had expected and I couldn’t wait to get my fingers on the keyboard.  It was out of tune as I knew it would be, but it was the most beautiful piece of furniture I had ever owned and I loved it.  He knew he had made an impression and responded to my “thank you” in the usual manner, “Thank me later.”  
The following summer, he triumphed again in the same manner.  After a week of secretive phone calls and an unexpected day trip that concluded with his truck’s motor approaching the house, followed by much swearing, bumps and thuds and finally his voice calling to me from downstairs to join him, I’ll be damned if there wasn’t a baby grand piano sitting in my living room.  “What do you think now, WOMAAN!?!”  I was near tears again, but I had to play it off. “Big deal.  You got me something else to dust.”  He was smiling, as he knew the more I protested, the higher he scored.  I continued, “I’m a little disappointed, actually.  You’ve been making all these clandestine phone calls all week and then you were out for a while, I thought you were finally having an affair.”  He simply smiled victoriously and said, “You’re welcome.”
Some time ago, I had a car accident.  It wasn’t a bad accident in that I was not injured, but my minivan was toast.  I hit a skid and spun around several times before the van came to a stop much like Dorothy’s house in the Wizard of Oz during the tornado.  When all the slipping, sliding, spinning, swearing and screaming was over, I was lying on my side and so was the van.  Several other motorists came running up to the van, opening the door and peering down at me to ask if I was okay as my shaking fingers pressed the buttons on my cell phone.  I was calling my husband to let him know what had happened.  When I heard his voice, I said, “I just had an accident.”  He responded with, “Where are you?”  Not “how”, but “where” was I.  It struck me as odd that that would be his first question, but I answered him, giving him my coordinates so to speak and we hung up.  It was some time before I would actually see him face to face and that question, “Where are you?” kept going through my mind the whole time.  By the time I saw him, I was fuming.  I began with, “WHERE are you?  WHERE?  Not how, but WHERE!?!”  I continued in that wifely half screech/half whine voice that husbands love so much, “Do you realize that perfect strangers were coming up to me just to ask me HOW I was?”  Without missing a beat, my husband the comedian said, “Of course…they already knew where you were.”