That shit’s romantic.

When My Guy proposed to me on the walking trail where we’d had our first date, he did so within a few feet of a doggie-waste disposal stand.

He didn’t mean to. It was behind him and he didn’t see it, seeing as how he was too nervous and concerned with remembering which finger the ring went on. But now we joke about it, and it’s part of our love story.

I guess it’s not surprising, then, that we don’t get into the Valentine’s day crazy. I think heart-shaped jewelry sucks ass, and he seems to think that making tex-mex rice casserole is a more-than-appropriate display of love. We are a good match.

He is incapable of hanging up a towel.

I am a shrill harpy.

He roughhouses with the dogs and then gets annoyed that they won’t settle down.

I probably have other faults, although none come to mind at the moment.

We can make each other crazy.

But here’s the whole truth: everything is better when he’s around.

Fun is more fun and crappy is way less crappy. He makes me laugh like someone with a flip-top head, like my cranium is going to explode with delight and my mouth must open as wide as possible to relieve some of the joyful pressure.

He’s my partner. He investigates potential dead mouse carcasses. I have expanded his diet beyond spaghetti and frozen dinners. Together, we make 1 fairly together and balanced entity.

I am so blessed. And thankful. And that doggie-doo station? Both apropos and a helpful landmark.

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