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Michelle Lovato: Oh, how do I love thee?

The Adventures of Garlic Man and Wedgie Woman

Posted: February 12, 2009 12:28 a.m.
Updated: February 12, 2009 4:55 a.m.
 
I’ve chosen to believe my husband has massive brain damage. This, of course, is why he does so many things I don’t understand.

Now, I mean no disrespect to brain-damaged individuals, but the fact that my catastrophe-prone, not-necessarily-daring darling flew through a car windshield at 2 years old; was speared in the temple with a skewer while engaged in an intense sword fight with his older cousin; was pushed into a searing pit barbecue by the same cousin; was hit head-on while riding his motorcycle and nearly died; engaged in umpteen years of football; earned a full-ride college scholarship that ended in unspeakable injury; and earned a position on the Rams’ backup team — all this has to do something to a person other than causing hip arthritis, a collage of scars, near-death airplane experiences and the ingestion of endless cases of Ibuprofin.

I tell you this because it’s nearly Valentine’s Day and I am pondering why I love him so dearly.

I knew I loved my overgrown Fozzy Bear 18 years ago when I threw my entire life into the endless pit of uncertainty and chaos in which I live. And I knew he loved me in 2001 when I got hit head-on in our car and nearly died.

But what really solidified my confidence in his undying devotion to me came a few years later, in 2005, at a time when we were so desperate to pay our bills that Yosemite Sam pulled out his big guns and made the ultimate familial sacrifice.

Yes, dear reader ... he got me a job.

I showed up nervous on my first day at the Orange County entertainment magazine at which I was now employed. I was taking over the editor’s job formerly occupied by the big guy himself.

And I knew after many hours of listening to his gripes that the publication was helplessly off deadline.

Though Mega Admin Man set up the administration and deadline calendars, the editorial infrastructure and professional contacts list, I was uneasy about my ability to perform as well as he did, especially after all the friendly reminders not to professionally embarrass him.

When my Dearly Self-centered left the company, I set my sights on what any truly dedicated, loving wife would do: Take all the glory. Competitive? Me? Nah.

For six weeks I praised God for all the things Lou Grant did to make my job easier. I devoted all my attention to work and let all my home responsibilities fly in the wind.

One night I walked in the door with an enormo-smile, a new Mac laptop and all the accessories needed to kick his stellar reputation right on over into his new company.

But when Mr. Magoo peered through his thick magnifying glasses and saw my tremendous booty, he dropped his pork rinds, tongue, jaw and all, revealing a sight and smell not easily describable to those accustomed to manners and gentility.

"Have you seen the bank account?” he asked. “We have 12 bounced checks.” I swallowed my gum.

“Take that computer back right now,” he said.

“I already opened it.”

The next day I was “laid off” from what I now openly refer to as “his old job” — because another editor wannabe offered to improve on my work for less money. Scallywag.

No noncensored words can capture the level of anger in my husband’s eyes, which worsened the next day when he accompanied me to return the Mac. Ever been told “No” by an electronics superstore? Maybe that’s why they’re out of business.

After some talk and extensive hand gyration, Slick Willy traded my precious, beautiful Mac for an inferior PC and claimed it as his own, refusing to let me touch it.

It took three months, tearful public wailing to our bank manager and a hefty loan from my mother-in-law to fix the problem. The good news is that my loving life-mate forgave me.

Six months later, I found a two-week paycheck in my purse that I forgot to put in the bank.
No wonder those checks bounced. Oops.

“Found money!” I said with an enormo-smile.

Super Guy tossed me a dirty look and returned to his brand-new lap top. Hmmm ... that makes me think. Did I pay the bills this month?

Michelle Lovato is a Signal staff writer. The views expressed in her column are her own and not necessarily those of The Signal. Copyright 2009.

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