I have a special announcement. The girlfriend, as she has been known to the blog, is now the fiancee. Or perhaps, I should refer to her as the-future-Mrs.-Pizza. My Better Slice. One day, the wife. The player two to my player one. Or perhaps, I’ll let her be player one.
We’re young. We’re in love. We eat lard. This woman has agreed to spend the rest of her life with me. Everyone says congrats, and then follows it up by saying “she must really love you.” I wonder why they say that. I believe she does. I also believe she simply appreciates the inherent art of the Michael Jackson bust in our living room.
It’s true we have some different interests. I like toys and arcades. She likes quality wooden spoons that don’t melt on the oven. I read literary novels. She likes books where the author’s name is embossed on the cover in puffy gold letters. I like going to the flea market. She is afraid of people with neck tattoos. And yet she dutifully scours each table for obscure Mario figurines from 1989 and Wings LPs.
I love sharing my life with her, and my adventures like mixing together Ovaltine and Tang. Not that she actually tried any Ovaltang, but she believed in the brilliance of it. She believes in me. But she decided not to drink any, and instead, sat across the room shaking her head at me. I believe she makes smart decisions. She’s smart. I like that. I like when we drive down the road, singing along with catchy jingles on the radio. I like when we make tacos and she chops up all the ingredients into small colorful bowls. I like that I can talk her into ordering pizza instead of making rutabaga lettuce chunks or whatever healthy recipe she’s trying out.
She shares my joy for life. We have similar values and perspectives about the future, family, money–and important things–like gift giving. Because presents are awesome. Wrapped with bows, always ALWAYS ALWAYS in holiday-appropriate wrapping paper. People who wrap birthday gifts in Christmas paper are jerks.
Without her in my life, I would still have the protective plastic sheeting on my framed poster of Bob Dylan hanging on the wall. I’ve squinted at that glass for the last SIX YEARS wondering why it’s so fuzzy and blurry looking. Yesterday, she noticed that I never took the protective sheet off the glass. Bobby never looked so good.
She is my Ms. Pac Man. And me? I’m Super Pac Man. Being super anything is better.
I smell onions.