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13.2.10

Jollying The Writer When It Is Sad

There is no one in my life more wonderful than my husband, and I would not still be a struggling writer if it were not for his tireless attempts to jolly me out of my arteestic funks. Jollying The Writer When It Is Sad is one of the most important and thankless jobs anyone can have (I say it is important because, as an arteest, it is All About Me, you see). Normally when my turn for Hitting the Hotspot rolls around, I've picked out a topic and have had an outline in my head for about a week or so. Unfortunately, I have been a Sad Writer this month, and most of my brain cells reserved for blogging were reassigned to the important task of watching all five seasons of Lost. Since I'm just reaching the end of the second season, my blogging brain cells are still deployed on this very important mission. I turned to my husband for help.

Me: I need a topic for my blog. Help me out.
Him: You could write about... the delicious taste of cock.
Me: ...
Him: Oh come on, that was way funnier than you're giving me credit for.
Me: No, I grade fairly. Perhaps you should tell me all about the taste of cock.
Him: I could remind you.
Me: ...
Him: Now you're thinking of writing your blog about your stupid husband and his juvenile sense of humor.
Me: Yes. Yes, I am.

Then he glommed onto me like an octopus in an attempt to keep me sitting on the couch instead of writing my blog post. I don't recall how I got away, it's all a blur and possibly involved some form of bribery. The point, however, is not that he has a juvenile sense of humor (though he does; the Christmas gift I gave him that makes him smile the most is a stop sign for his desk, except instead of the word 'stop' it has the word 'poop' on it) but that he always tries to help me. When I'm in a funk with terrible writer's block, he offers to place a body part or two on me--usually his buttocks--in the belief that this will make me smile. It does. When I finish a chapter and send it to him, he gasps in the appropriate places, and laughs in the right spots. He celebrates more than I do when I make a sale, he poses with me when I need some spatial references for, ahem, certain scenes, and he insists on taking me out to dinners that cost more than my literary short story sales deliver. And when I get a royalty check, he picks out a bill that my royalty check covers and proudly shows it to me.

The only problem is that this relationship doesn't go both ways. My husband is a computer engineer. I can't very well engage with him in a spirited discussion that P=NP because my best chance at winning that argument is to demand satisfaction in the form of a cage match. Nor can I passionately support him if he decides to claim that .999... doesn't equal 1. Because math. Jollying The Engineer When It Is Sad takes way more years of college than I can afford. I guess for now, asking him to test the physics of certain sexual positions with me will have to suffice.

Darn.

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