Meet Mr. T

I'm married to Mr. T. Not that Mr. T of course. The only things that my Mr. T and the famous one have in common are the raw animal magnetism and pitying the occasional fool.

Though they look nothing alike, I think it's fun to imagine that they do. Stories about his job (PR at a Catholic media company) are suddenly and secretly a lot more entertaining. He also bowls and plays kickball. The famous Mr. T would look hysterical doing those things. I don't mean to imply that my Mr. T isn't a hunky piece of eye candy, because he for sure is. But if you want to be entertained here, I suggest you just let the mental image sink in.

Mr. T is 29 years old, owns a cute little farmhouse in Portland, and is a fantastic father to our young son Tiger. His favorite show is So You Think You Can Dance, thinks baboons are dicks to leopards, and knows more about college football than he should. He hates milk, mean people, and the smell of vomit. Mr. T gets giddy when his mom comes to town, thinks his grandpa is the best person he's ever known, and still feels bad about the time that he told his dad he wasn't funny about 13 years ago. He and I have very different tastes when it comes to punk music, pizza toppings, and an acceptable length for finger nails. We agree that Tiger is a baby genius, Freddie Mercury is the best front man ever, and that hot wings are a delicious taste sensation.

Sometimes I can't believe I ended up with Mr. T. I tend towards seriousness and I figured my life partner would too. Instead I picked the most ridiculous one in the bunch. Smartest thing I ever did. And that ain't no jive talk, Turkey!