Dexter P. Mannikin, my first ex-husband, is one of this earth's precious natural resources. With his enormous cranium and concomitant intellect, he is never at a loss for the most scathing witty comments or the most incisive analysis of anything from foreign policy to gender politics to meth-head defense strategies to belly-button lint.

He can sail, sing, play the guitar, tie knots (for good or evil, you decide, bwa ha ha), defensify fo' da people, rebuild an engine, rewire a 1956 Dodge from stem to stern, tolerate young people, compose elegant and eloquent prose, draw cartoons, hold court at the yacht club, and make a mean cup of coffee. I've even seen him pat a few fireplugs on the head on occasion.

Without Dexter, I wouldn't understand geek love nearly as well as I do. He continues to put up with me, as he has done since we met in 1985, since we married, divorced, remarried other people, moved him in, moved him out, you name it.

Through it all, through pain and love and ridiculous, unnecessary suffering, we are friends. I love you, Dexter. You are still the amazing person I met when I was but eighteen years old and looking for someone else with geek-for-brains and lust in his heart.

Dexter, your competence astounds me. And your forgiveness humbles me beyond words.