Not very long after my boyfriend and I moved in together, I was sorting out what had quickly become "our" collective mess of LPs laying on the floor in George's man-cave.Man-cave, music room, whatever.  He's a musician and needs a place to keep his guitars and small recording setup and microphone.  And LPs.  Tons and tons of LPs.  Vinyl.  Albums. And a record player.  A "phonograph", if you will.  Or as a friend of mine in Texas has called it, "The Way-Back Machine".Groovy.And yes, we both have plenty of albums.  He is a music fan, I worked in a record store and got a pretty deep discount, and we both (still to this day) troll the used record/cut out bins for vinyl nuggets of cultural significance.  These days I lean towards anything instrumental that may sound like Mantovani and his orchestra (horrifically delicious), or exotica (think Martin Denny), or something samba/mambo-ish, a la Perez Prado.  But sometimes you stumble across that thing that's far too craptastic to pass up, and it has to go in your collection.Bear with me, it's coming.So I was alphabetizing my records and sorting them into the "my pile" vs. the "his pile", and I saw...this one record...and inserted it in the proper place in my pile.  Then a minute or two later I thought...huh...isn't that funny, I thought I'd already put...this one record...away, but I shrugged it off and considered myself mistaken and went to the section of the alphabet where...this one record...belonged.Only there were two. [wait for it...]  [wait for it...] That's right.  We both own a copy of Cybill Shepherd's "Cybill does it...to Cole Porter".This is how I knew he'd be able to manage my weirdo love for exotica and mambo and Mantovani.This is how I knew we were meant to be together.

This post is for the D! Challenge by Frizztext

Because I love a good alphabet challenge.