Tomorrow is our fifth anniversary. So I thought I'd write you a letter. I don't know if it's a love letter, exactly, but whatever. You'll see soon enough.
Over the past six years, we've been though many trials and tribulations. Deaths in the family, losing a job or two, backstabbing former friends, overbearing in-laws, forgetting to buy pickles at the grocery store one too many times, and fighting over the Game Cube. I'm fairly certain that anyone who would observe our marriage would say that we're perfect for each other. We have give and take, and complement each other well.
Both of us could say that we've had our moments were the other had to sleep on a couch a couple nights. But doesn't any couple go through that kind of thing? I know my parents did. Of course, Dad began sleeping on the couch more and more until Mom kicked him out after forgetting to separate his socks in the laundry so I suppose they aren't the best examples.
I just know that when I get home from work, you'll be there, tapping away at your keyboard, writing the next Pulitzer prize winning novel. Or at least the next Josie's Pick from the Women of Sci Fi blog (I think it's because you look kind of like that anthropologist dude on Stargate, glasses and all, but I'm not jealous or anything). You've understood my weird cravings, especially for pickles, and went the extra mile to satisfy me. I mean, when we were stuck in that craphole motel on our first anniversary, and all I wanted to eat were kosher dill pickles, you totally scavenged around New York, a city that scares you, to find my pickles. I'm pretty sure my mom would have told me to suck it up and made me eat crackers or something.
I think I'm a better person from knowing you. You're kind, gentle, and wouldn't think of ever hurting somebody. You've totally been a calming influence on me, and I'm not as snappy as I usually am, except that one time at that book release party where I threw champagne on that trollop who said I looked fifteen and that people must think you were a pedo. Though you totally laughed afterwards so I suppose that was okay. Or at least more okay than the time I kicked your brother in the shins when he found out I worked for a cosmetics company and he said no one would believe me because make up made me look even more hideous.
Seriously, though, why would he even SAY that? It's not my fault his wife ran away with that woman who sold her Mary Kay cosmetics. And it wasn't like I was hitting on him or anything. Sheesh.
But anyway. Lawrence, you mean the world to me, and I can't imagine not being married to you. I've enjoyed or time together, though all our fights and misunderstandings and frustrations and happy times and the pickles.
But, there's more. I have a confession. I only married you because my hands are too small to open pickle jars. I mean, obviously I kind of liked you and everything, but I didn't think I'd actually marry you. Because that whole sex thing kind of freaked me out (until we actually did it. Sorry about making you wait three days after we got married, but, dude, I was menstruating. And that's even more gross). And the idea of living with someone for the rest of my life was kind of weird. But I'm glad I did. Because I have someone to open pickle jars for me now.
Oh, and because I love you.
So yeah. That's what I wanted to say. Happy anniversary!
All my love,
I only married you because you eat the pickles off my sandwiches.
Just don't run off with a pickle saleswoman, okay?
Author's Note: Just a really cutesy one shot inspired by an incident this morning. I had to be in at work by 5 AM, and I forgot to eat dinner last night. So when I nearly fainted after working for a couple hours, I grabbed our jar of pickles for the other employees as part of our pre-Thanksgiving lunch (ham sandwiches!) to them, and tried to open it. I was voraciously craving pickles, and couldn't get the jar open seeing as how I'm Smalls McTinyPerson and my hands were too small. So I had my dad do it, and was therefore feasting on Pickles. And thus I got this cute little letter idea. Yeah. Random. I'm a shut up now.