My Husband's Autobiography By Me

Jim was looking a little blue last night. It’s hard selling telephony doodads (never did understand what they were) for a doodad manufacturer whose doodads don’t work very well and may be obsolete by the end of the quarter, although we sure hope not since DooDad, Inc., pays the bills.

“Honey, I know what you need,” I said in my wifeliest tone. “You’re bored with my blogging day and night about ME."

No wonder. I’m a bit bored with the topic of myself as well. So I say to him, sweetly, that I’ll give it a rest and begin a new book, The Autobiography of My Husband by His Wife.

"Whatdoya think," I ask.

I hadn’t the heart to tell him right then I would of course be the author because he brightened right up and taking the pen in his right paw, HAND, I meant hand, began to write clearly on a small scrap of paper I keep for making grocery lists. I should tell you we were sitting in the kitchen at the teeny table where we throw poker dice while supper cooks.

Ahem. Here’s what he had to say so far. In MY voice. Like we're some strange duet:

He often seemed to be rational. (Good, very good opener.) I don’t know what pushed him over the edge. (Uh oh, a little gloomy here.)
It all started with the horrific event that changed our relationship. (I'm getting nervous now.) Early on in our time together he mentioned something that I pooh-poohed (did I?) at the time. Wish I hadn’t done that.

(Uh oh.)

Then he put down the pen and pushed the paper over to me. Hey, I was putting the steak on the grill. Buffalo steak, he’s got the heart thing about cholesterol (thank God for spell check here) so we’re eating nature’s-bounty-meat these days. With trips to KFC in between (original thigh, side of slaw) to keep the economy moving. And I’m thinking, like, you going to write this or am I? Are we going to write it together?

But first, Whoa, what the hell event was he referring to? (Bad to end sentence with preposition but at least I recognize that.) Maybe I don’t believe there was any such event. I’ll ask him to tell me.

Tick tock, wait an hour. Here’s his reply:

It’s simple, really. Since it was my autobiography I decided that some of it should at least be “auto.” So I started to write, bearing in mind that is you don’t snag the reader in the first few sentences, you’ve lost him or her. The best snag is a potential sex thriller or murder mystery. Why not drop an innuendo right up front that it could be either? Or both? Or neither?

Hah, Hah! Still don’t know where it is going, do ya? I’m keepin’ it that way, you auto thief you.

Hugh Lyon Sack

You see what I have to put up with?