“My publisher just e-mailed me. They say the check’s in the mail.”
Dearly Beloved says this with a straight face; he isn’t kidding. When he tries to continue with something about setting up book signings however, he cracks himself up and goes back to his Mac. No autographs, I guess–not even the one he mailed his mother.
“Hey, look at this Mary blog I found last night, ” I tell him while he’s still on his computer. “She takes beautiful nature pictures and lives in this county.”
I always read Mary blogs when I run across one and I think this one is a gem. I can learn to identify the birds in our yard are by looking at her lovely photographs. I’m better at plant identification than birds.
He looks at me with a little smirk. “How do you manage to get three syllables out of b-l-o-g?”
Guilty. I realize it as soon as he says it. His mother can do me one better; she can get four syllables out of b-o-y-s with her Tidewater FAginia accent. She uses it often, as in. . . “I had four boys, you know.”
DB doesn’t have much of an accent, but he can throw out some words no one else has used in 50 years. No matter how many times I tell him, he never remembers they’re earrings, not earbobs. I don’t wear them often enough for him to use it, I guess. The one that frustrates me most is that his insistence on calling the thing I carry around on my arm not a bag, handbag, purse, or pocketbook, but a billfold. When we are out somewhere and he hands me something he doesn’t want to carry (like my keyring with the big black key holder and opener and alarm buttons and all the store fobs on it which does indeed look peculiar in his pants pocket) he’ll say, “Put this in your billfold, if you don’t mind.”
On a trip last week he asked me in all seriousness, “Do you have any blowgum in your billfold?”
I don’t think it’s been called blowgum since Blondie and Dagwood got married.
But yes, he has been published. Never mind that it’s a page and a half in a 300+ page book. He’s in it with a byline and even a short biography. It’s a book about golf and if there is one thing my husband can wax eloquently about, it’s GOLF. When he first retired he had a case of the guilts from not doing something productive, so when he saw something in a golf magazine looking for golf essays, he dashed one off and sent it in. They bought it.
He found that so easy that he started cranking them out one after another. He has enough to do his own book of golf essays, but then he read Edgar Sawtelle and decided he’d rather write a novel. When he tells me that check is in the mail, I’ll put on earbobs, grab my billfold and we’ll celebrate!
Today we worked in the yard for several hours. I didn’t find any surprises …unless poison oak counts… while continuing my War of the Weeds. DB was edging the borders. I was in my typical AIA position–Arse In Air–when he called out:
“You know, I think your butt is getting smaller.”
His publisher was right: this man knows how to turn a pretty phrase!