Yay! Audience participation! I love it.
The provocative think-piece I entitled "Huh?" yielded this response:
"whenever i read your blog - not often but once in a while - i like to think you are exaggerating massively and not really so mean to your husband in real life. if i was your husband in the world of your blog, i would have left you long ago. i assume you are turning your life into complete fiction, else why do you stay with him if he is so terrible? please reassure me that this is all a joke!"
I shared this with poor Steve, who piteously asked me to send his heartfelt thanks to Infrequent Reader- provided it was ok with me, he added hastily while shielding his face. He says it makes him feel less alone to know that there is someone out there who understands what he is going through. He started shouting something about please! please! send help! but I snapped my jaws at him and he hustled back to his labors, anxious to keep me in the style to which I have grown accustomed.
Listen up, kiddliwinks, I wouldn't waste too much time worrying about Steve. When I am not actively engaged in trying to bite him I am usually having sex with him or feeding him something fairly eatable or making him laugh. He does ok. Besides, MOST people find me ineffably charming.
Infrequent (what? I am not daily read? not even weekly? a touch! a touch I do confess) Reader asks an excellent question, though, which is: surely I jest? Did Steve really say that I had obviously scheduled the sixth D&C solely to screw up his weekend? Did I actually try to bite his leg? Do I honestly believe that prodding him into telling me that he is angry rather than letting him wander around the house for days in a silent froth is healthy? Do we truly have such little self-control that we engaged in adult acts in an upstairs bathroom while the carpet guys were working in the basement on Tuesday?
Some, yes, yes the left leg, yes and none of your damn business. But yes. Ha!
I don't know. It seems to me that Steve and I have a pretty good marriage, all things considered. I probably should not get drunk and try to rip his head off his shoulders, but he shouldn't throw tantrums about my announcing an Eight Miscarriage Limit. Give and take. Yin and yang. Siskel-Ebert.
Anyway, I am always delighted to hear from each and every one of you, even if you do want to leave me sobbing into a wadded piece of Kleenex while the movers dismantle the nursery.
So the bad news is that we are going to South Carolina tomorrow and the blog will be a sad and lonely place until next week. The good news is that the trip is some sort of bizarr-o Family Beach Week in which Steve, Patrick and I will be sharing a house with my mother, while my brother and his wife and their two kids have a house with her brother and his wife and their child plus the other sister. Then in a third house we have the brother's wife's brother's wife's sister and her family and finally, bringing up the rear, my brother's wife's parents in house numero quattro. So when I come back I will have stories to tell. How could I not with a line-up like that? Provided I can figure out how to do it without gossiping, of course, I add primly.
I hope you have a wonderful week. Think of me while I contend with my brother's inlaws en masse. Actually, no, no. Think of Steve. Unappreciated sweet lovable little rich boy. He has suffered so much already.