The Hubs is Trying to Out Live Me So I Won't Write A Book About Him

photo of staring guy I know you took it! Where is it?

So the hubs told me that he is trying to outlive me so I won’t write his biography, The Life and Times of WyoJones. I’m sensing a lack of trust from my companion of thirty-nine years. He’s always been so supportive of my writing and our friends—particularly those on our Christmas letter list—have been asking for it for years. As an author, it is hard to give up on the idea of hotly demanded project.

I probably shouldn’t have promised to wait until he dies to write it.

I think he’s hoping that if he does go first, I’ll be too far gone mentally to remember the good stuff. And of course, I’m afraid our kids will write our story after we’re gone.

What prompted this discussion was a lost remote. That’s right. A remote.

When the hubs can’t find the remote (which is usually stuck down in the side of his chair or on the floor by his chair or hiding in plain sight on account of his male pattern blindness), he’ll look around and ask, “Who stole the remote?” Since the only other person in the house is me, the suspect list is short. I stole it, because, you know, I would. Or a random, remote-specific marauder stormed through the house and took it, taking nothing else because he delights in confusing his victims.

photo of marauder No remote is safe from me. Bwahahahah!

Or possibly a black hole ate it. But that seems a bit far-fetched.

My own theory is the remote just gets tired and hides. I know the way the hubs watches TV is pretty typical of men. Clicking through all the channels multiple times, because this time there will be something on worth stopping to watch.

The hubs is solidly in the “a marauder stole the remote” camp. While others’ mileage may vary, I find it kind of cute that he always looks a bit surprised when I find the remote (which I suspect is the point of the whole exercise).

You’re probably reading this and thinking, “They are both bat crap crazy.” And you’d be right. But in an odd way, his crazy and mine kind of mesh together, which is why we’ve managed to live together for so long, despite all that crazy. Of course, I prefer to call it “quirky.” Or “eccentric.” Yeah, I’m comfortable with either.

I am a little afraid to ask a question for this blog post. What if the only answer is: “Yeah, your kids need to send in the guys in the white coats.” But I will be brave and ask anyway. Do you or your significant other have a quirky routine that might be considered a tiny bit out there?

Perilously yours,


“This is an amazing collection of taut suspense and dreamworthy romance.” Amazon review, five stars

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Pauline Baird Jones

Perilously fun Fiction

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