“From this point on, My Love, you shall refer to me as your husband, the Award-Winning Sports Columnist.”
“Hmm?” she grunted over her coffee.
“I want to now be introduced to people as your husband, the Award-Winning Sports Columnist. And please note -- the inflection of my voice indicates that last phrase should be capitalized.”
“But you don’t write a sports column?”
“I wrote one. The one about buying beer at a minor league baseball game at 10:30 in the morning. That was good enough for the Connecticut Society of Professional Journalists.”
“Yes, it ‘counts.’ And please note – the inflection of my voice indicates that last word is in quotes.”
“Aren’t the people who really write about sports every day going to be mad at you?”
“Their sportswriters. Think Oscar Madison! Ray Romano! At worst, I could toss a few hot dogs one way to distract them then run.”
“If you don’t pull a hamstring. And yes,” she said, “I noted the inflection of your voice indicated italicizing the word ‘sportswriters.’”
“Har har har! Can’t you let me revel? For once my work received actual recognition. In fact, smarty, two of my other columns also won honorable mentions.”
“Honorable mentions?” she said. “Those are real awards?”
* * *
A few days later, I walked into the part of the house known only to the IRS as my office to see the gift of guilt left to me by a certain wife:
I called My Love over, put my arm around her and we soaked in the soothing glow of compact fluorescent lights on imitation vellum.
“So,” I asked, “how’s it feel to be married to a real trophy husband?”
“They’re only paper certificates.”
“Bite me, sweetie.”
Congratulations to my fellow-dads-in-crimes-against-literature, otherwise known as the usual gang of idiots over at DadCentric.
That crack the writer made about “the mundane”? Pretty sure it’s directed at my contributions.
Bite me, sweetie.