Hubby lives under the unfortunate delusion that my blog has the reach and influence of national cable news. This is both flattering and deeply confusing. Every time I write anything remotely humorous involving him, he reacts as though I have exposed classified government secrets to the international community.

“You told people I tuck my shirts into my underwear?” he asked recently, horrified.

“Yes.”

“Now everybody knows!” (As if everybody can’t see this for themselves.)

I didn’t have the heart to admit that my blog readership currently consists of:
• my sister-in-law
• three loyal Facebook friends
• one woman from church
• and possibly an accidental click from a man in Nebraska looking for tractor parts

Hubby imagines crowds of strangers discussing him over coffee.

“Did you hear Ellen’s husband wears glasses on top of his head while searching for his glasses?”

“No! Tell me more!”

Meanwhile, my actual readership statistics suggest most people barely have time to skim the title before getting distracted by a cat video.

But this does not comfort him. To Hubby, every blog post is a potential public relations disaster. The other day, he caught me typing on my keyboard and immediately became suspicious.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing.”

“That means it’s about me.”

Technically, he was correct. The problem is that Hubby provides excellent material simply by existing.

For example, this is a man who once spent twenty minutes searching for his phone while talking on it. Another time, he announced to the entire house that his wallet was missing, only to discover he was sitting on it.

Do you know how difficult it is for a writer to ignore moments like these? It would be irresponsible not to document them for future generations. Yet Hubby remains convinced that every embarrassing story becomes instant global news.

If I mention that he talks to the television during TV shows that feature anything related to airplanes—correcting all the inaccuracies—he acts like this somehow makes him come across as “eccentric.”

If I write that the fondest memory he had of his daughter’s wedding was the Reuben sandwich he ate at a Cracker Barrel in Ohio, he fears complete social humiliation.

Honestly, I think he imagines total strangers reading my blog and whispering: “Oh, THAT’S the Reuben guy.”

The irony is that he rarely objects to my reporting about the truly odd things he does. No, the stories that upset him most are always the tiny quirks.

1. The way he has kept every gas station receipt for the past thirty-five years that I’ve known him.
2. The fact that, although he has a closet full of clothes, he only wears the pre-Ellen stretched-out orange sweater with the holes in it during the winter.
3. The fact that he has left his hat(s) in more restaurants than the number of years he’s been on this planet.

Apparently, these are deeply private matters.

Meanwhile, I’m wondering why he thinks millions of readers are emotionally invested in his collection of extension cords. I finally tried to reassure him.

“Honey, my readership isn’t that big.”

He looked relieved for approximately three seconds. Then he frowned.

“Wait. What exactly are you saying about my stories?”

So now I’m trapped in the world’s most confusing marital conundrum. Hubby is simultaneously offended that people are reading about him and offended that they aren’t.

Does your spouse have funny quirks? If so, send them to me so Hubby won’t feel unduly persecuted.