BUCKING THE SYSTEM: SERVICES OF MIA HUSBAND NO LONGER WANTED OR NEEDED

Somebody has taken my husband, and you know what? They can keep him.

I don't know what's going on, but I do know the man wearing the skin of Patrick L. Buck is not my husband.

Maybe it's an invasion of the body snatchers. Maybe he has a twin who has taken over his life. Or maybe Patrick has participated in a selective adult cloning experiment without my knowledge.

All I know is this man is not the man I married.

It's the little things, you know? Like the willingness to take out the trash, replace the tissue roll and put the seat down on the toilet.

Sure, this man looks like my husband. Indeed, he puffs on cigarettes and leaves his shoes in the middle of the floor. He also asks me to "bump" his clothes with an iron, even though all he's doing is watching ESPN while I'm curling my hair, brushing Jerry's teeth, giving Patrick Jr. his pacifier and cooking breakfast.

Even so, I think he's a robot or something. Look, this man makes the bed as soon as he's gotten out of it, and he's been able to direct a mostly empty beer can into the trash instead of leaving it sitting on the floor for a toddler to grab.

And the other day he provided vocal appreciation of the new shade of lipstick I had just bought. He also steals "I'm not looking" glances as I'm getting dressed in the morning.

Maybe I should file a missing person's report. When the police ask why, I'll tell them how the man posing as my husband is willing to keep the kids home on his day off rather than send them to daycare. And I'll tell them about his nonwhining cheerfulness when he realizes I have to work late, which means he has to cancel his night out with the boys.

That's not my husband. Heck, that's nobody's husband.

Husbands don't typically hold doors for their wives or volunteer for kid duty just because. They don't sit around the tonk table with their cohorts and talk about how in love they are, nor do they smile silly grins when those friends decide to tease him about his puppy dog habits in front of other men.

And anybody who knows my husband knows he'd rather die than put aside his beloved Rump-Shaker-Shaker for a more sensible four-door sedan. This guy actually appears to be considering that move.

That was the last straw. No man would voluntarily do away with his last boy toy without even being harangued by his wife.

You see what I mean? It's not my man. My Patrick was an easy-going, fairly affectionate guy who would only do so much before testosterone surplus kicked in and prevented him from doing more.

This Patrick is everything I want: Cooperative, romantic, understanding.

Well, I've made a decision: I'm not giving this man back. For better or for worse he initiated this masquerade, and I'm going to make him play it to the end.

I don't want my husband back. Whoever has him, you can keep him. His replacement has become to my household what Michael Jordan was to the Chicago Bulls, and retirement is simply not an option.

I'm thankful to whomever thought I was deserving of such a gift. They might have thought they were playing a good joke on me, but I've got news for them: this one's a keeper.

As for that other Patrick, I hope whoever has him enjoys the Rump-Shaker-Shaker. They're in for a bumpy ride.

~Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.