Fishing For Compliments

My husband is an avid fisherman.  That is actually a bit of an understatement.  It’s his first love.  I’m his fourth love, somewhere after provolone cheese yet before back scratching…actually I’m more or less the twit he puts up with.

List of Magilla’s loves in appropriate order


Our dog, Hellhound

Grocery shopping




Large luggage

Provolone Cheese

Fluffy pillows

Bruce Springsteen

and then me

I know my place and am completely comfortable with it.

Yesterday he told me we should have a dinner date.  I asked him if it was because he adored me and missed me and couldn’t live without me.  “No”, he says, “we have to eat.”  I think I may have snarfed pasta from laughing so hard.  He’s not wrong.  We do need to eat. Well alright then.

I’ve learned to keep my expectations low in the compliment department.  My husband does not utter flowery words of adoration.   It’s probably a good thing that I have a fairly healthy sense of self.   It’s also a good thing that I’m very independent and don’t require a lot of fussing.  It actually makes me uncomfortable.

We, as a whole, are not a flowery couple.  We don’t do grand proclamations.  We don’t whisper sweet nothings.  I don’t really think either of us have the patience for it.  I’m okay with that; it rather appeals to my minimum bullshit persona. I somewhat cringe when people ask, “What do you think?”  Really?  Are you sure you want this question answered.

What I do know is that if this world turned sideways, the one standing right by my side will be Mr. Magilla.  No question.

Having said all this?  The man is a lunatic.

Truly.  He drives me nuts; in the best, most wonderful way.

I have this love/hate with his travel schedule.  My home is neat and tidy when he’s away.  It makes me happy that the bed is made and I don’t find things like jars of marinara sauce in the dresser or fishing rods in the shower.  (True story – will reserve for another time)

According to him, he speaks dog.  He thinks every leaf is poison ivy.  He is convinced that every letter in a word needs to be pronounced and he does not sweat the details of things.  Actually he does, but it’s bizarre obscure things that are totally in his control that he will obsess about.  Which makes no sense to me.

He had a horrible staph infection a few months ago in which they needed to lance something on his person.  My husband does not do doctors.  Frankly, I think he would rather be eaten by coyotes.  Antibiotics were only doing so much and he needed to go to a specialist for them to look at it.  Instead of telling me they may do a procedure (communication is NOT his strong suit), he said our doctor referred him just to be safe.

Long story short, he passed out when they injected him with the local anesthetic.  Out.  Cold.  I get a phone call at work that I need to get there immediately because my husband is prone in a chair and mumbling things.

So I get there and the doctor explains what had happened as I stand there with my arms folded over my chest.  Mr. Magilla is interjecting things at this point like….the dog likes peanut butter and Charlie is in the inlet.  The doctor says and I quote…”due to his fear of needles he had what is known as a vasovagal syncope.  In most people this lasts a couple of minutes at most.”  Not my Magilla.  He likes to do it up big.  His lasted an hour; after which they sent us to the Urgent Care in the adjacent building.  There they gave him an IV which ironically he did just fine with.  They also gave him apple juice and a granola bar and I overheard him bargaining with the nurse, railroading her with the logic that he’s a big dude and should by virtue of this fact get TWO granola bars.

I then, at his request, called his mother and sister to inform them of his almost demise.  According to him, he saw a bright light and was moving toward it.  As I’m trying to explain what happened, he’s interjecting that it was “Vizzy Viggio”.  As I explained to my sister in law that essentially he fainted, he’s yelling in the background that “Vizzy Viggio” sounds more manly and therefore better.

I told him to shut up and drink his juice and then ordered a screw driver for myself.  The nurse told me is wasn’t a bar and they only have apple juice.  Juice is juice lady.  Pony up with that cocktail, huh?  She said it’s an urgent care ma’am and we’re trying to get rid of your husband.  Well so am I LADY! (in my head)

While it’s common knowledge that it takes a strong man to be married to me; it also takes a strong woman to be married to him.  He’s not these easiest soul to live with.  He’s kind and funny and wonderful and cute.  But he’s….how can I put this….set in his ways.

We have a daily curtain battle.  He insists the dog likes the sheer SEE THROUGH curtains open because apparently the diaphanous fabric blocks her vision, therefore making her frustrated in her inability to bark at EVERYTHING a nanosecond sooner.   Every day I close them immediately after arriving home because at this point it’s a game and damn it; I am no quitter.  When he travels he interrogates me as to whether I left the curtains open for her.  I always insist that she demands the blinds be drawn in addition to the curtains being closed because I speak canine.  He rejects that canine is the genus for dog.  He also insists even if she has a full bowl of water, that secretly in mutt code she’s saying “WATER, WATER”.

Yes it takes a strong woman to be married to him.  One has to be in a marriage.  It’s not for the unsure.  You have to live with someone every day.  They see you at your worst and you see them.  The for better part is the easy part.  But when you can start laughing in the middle of a fight…

When you put your own ego aside to raise up your partner.  When you refrain from choking them with their own sock because even after you’ve asked six times it’s still laying on the stairs…

Girls fish for compliments, women know that the man the saves you the last piece of brownie doesn’t need to tell you daily how wonderful you are.  He loves you in spite of weight gain, PMS, no make up, mood swings, bad days, bad hair, runs in pantyhose, spider veins, cellulite, refusal to put ice cream in the bowl, you’re just gonna eat it out of the container because your day sucked that much…

The man who saves you the last brownie loves you more than anything in the world.  Period.  There is no one else I’d rather spend my life audibly rolling my eyes at.

But he still drives me nuts.

My dining room table one hour after Magilla returns from a business trip


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