If you've read Wiping the Crazy off My Face for more than five minutes, you know three things about me.
1. I get married a lot because it's impolite to say no and then I get divorced a lot because I marry people whose middle names I do not know.
2. I'm an international spy. Trench coat, dark glasses, fake mustache...the whole deal.
3. I am in mad, obsessive, unnatural, deep, scary love with Michael Buble.
Oh, and I'm a world class fire baton twirler. So that's like four things. I'm throwing in that extra bonus thing absolutely free.
Tonight while trying to decide whether to watch TV or knit mittens for homeless people, I saw my Michael sitting across the table from Glenn Beck and decided homeless people can take turns using their socks as mittens.
Besides, I don't know how to knit so I was actually just going to cut out some hand shapes from old towels and staple them together.
First of all, with regard to Glenn Beck, let me say that although I realize I may spend eternity in Hell because of it, I kinda like him. Often something flies out his mouth that makes me think the only explanation is that he's on the cutting edge of brilliance... or has suffered a brain injury. And then other times the things he says make me want to flick him right on the nose while sternly chastising him.
He'd probably like that 'cause he looks like the type that might appreciate a stern nose flick from a Southern woman.
Tonight though, my like of Glenn Beck was at least momentarily upgraded to big, huge, love. It's the kind of love I reserve for anyone who may have possibly breathed the same air as the Michael.
Michael, Michael, Michael.
For those of you not familiar with Michael Buble, WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HANGING AROUND HERE? You're messing with my Michael chi.
If you must continue reading, please chant Michael, Michael, Michael quietly while reading. It would also help if you could sprinkle some fairy dust over your computer.
Or fish food if you're out of fairy dust.
If for some reason you don't know my Michael, close your eyes and imagine Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Harry Connick Jr. and Elvis all rolled up into one sweet hunk of thirty-three year old yummy goodness. His voice is flawless, his face is perfection and his hair is perfectly hairy.
All these things make him the perfect future ex-husband for me. In fact, until tonight, I couldn't imagine any way he could possibly be more perfectly perfect. (Or that I would use the word perfect so many times when not describing my own eyebrows.)
And then he did it. In his white shirt with rolled up sleeves and careless thin black tie, he bit his bottom lip and sang, "Me so horny," to Glenn Beck. "Me love you long time."
I wept openly as I could easily imagine him singing those same beautiful words to me on our wedding day.
Of course he also said some other stuff that made a vein in my head swell up and throb. Something about a girlfriend and twenty-four and blah, blah, blah.
Listen, he can keep a girlfriend if he wants. That can be dealt with. I have a lovely cage in the garage. Won't be hard to get her inside, either. I could throw an Easy Bake oven and a couple issues of What is Nick Lachey Doing This Week magazine and she'd walk right in. Probably curl right up and go to sleep.
I am nothing if not an accommodating wife.
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