Mr. T, fist held aloft over an open palm: “Which one do you really want?”
Me, hands mirroring his: “Both.”
T: “Well, which one am I?”
T: “Okay, so you want pizza”
Me: “No, I want both.”
T: “No, you want pizza, because I’m obviously going to win.”
Me: “Um, I’m planning to win.”
Me: “COME ON!”
T: “So, you really want Thai.”
Me: “I WANT BOTH.”
Debate ensues about my former status as Ro Sham Bo Grand Master Champion of the Universe (it’s a thing, trust me), but also my current 50-time running losing streak.
We throw rocks and papers and scissors. When I lose, again, and then again and again after the requisite rematch(es), T proclaims: “YOU ARE A COMPLETE LOSERRRRRRRRRR!”* and we both descend into laughter. (I won’t, gentle readers, share what I shouted back.)
As we enjoyed pizza and trash TV (“Insatiable” and “Harlots” for the curious), with T re-winding the parts that cracked me up the most, I got to thinking about some of our terms of endearment. Our defaults are “babe” and “sweet pea,” although when I asked T what else he calls me, he replied quizzically “Hey you”? before offering a smarmy “shnookums” and then “peaches.” My loving under-breath reply? “Punk ass punk.” That “complete loser” has become something endearing in the last 24 hours just cracks me up though.
And for the record, I just won the latest contest. It’s leftover pot pie for dinner today.
* For proper intonation, please see Weird Al Yankovic’s “I lost on Jeopardy.”