Gratitudation For My Spouse or Something Like That by Kat Magendie

If you all have been reading my last couple of YOG posts, you will note I’ve given my husband a bit of a hard time. So, I am here to write about how grateful I am that he does his own laundry, cooks, gets up earlier than I do and flicks the coffee switch that grinds and then brews our Deep Creek Blend, and all that jazz. I sit to write and notice a copy of Reader’s Digest, and right beside it my MORE Magazine. I pick up the MORE and thumb through it, and then I flip through the Reader’s Digest. Wait! No! I am writing a YOG about how gratitudinational I am for my husband, seeing as how I’ve been making fun of him just a teeny bit in my last few YOGs, or at best, seeming as if I was hootin tootin glad to have all that alone time where I danced and sang and had a really clean house without drips and fingerprints and the whole bed to myself.

I settle in my chair, laptop in my lap—yes, that’s where I use my laptop, in my lap. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do? Why else is it called a laptop if I’m not typing on it while it rests on my lap. Actually, it’s not directly on my lap, since I use one of those little mini “writing tables,” the ones with a soft padding underneath, mine has happy little flowers that reminds me of the sixties, even though I am not a sixties flower child, since my teen years were in the seventies. What was I writing about? Let me backtrack, let’s see: writing table, laptop, hootin tootin, MORE and Reader’s Digest magazines—oh! Yes, I was writing a YOG post about how grateful I am to my husband. How Roger supports my writing, how he every so often goes to Baton Rouge by himself so I can have the house all to myself and lie across the bed without kicking him out of the way because he takes up too much space and I’m all scrunched over to one side and he says I take up too much of the covers but that is not true because what he does is gets too hot and kicks them to my side and I have so many piles of covers that I push them to the other side and they end up—wait. Hold up. Oops, I did it again. I digressificated. And, dang, if I’m not at the word limit where we try not to yammerfy and blabbervate on and on, thus boring the heck out of YOG readers. Well, maybe later I can return and write about the gratitudation I have for my spouse, as soon as he quits distracting me from writing about him by shouting out the answers to Jeopardy.