Dear C,
Alas, while your sojourn without hubby continues, our experiment on life without children has come to an end. Our two treasures arrived back from their long weekend with grandparents yesterday, and the pair of Dobermans we bought to replace them failed abjectly to prevent re-entry into the family home. Not to say we didn’t miss them desperately, of course – the first day. By the second, I was content with re-fashioning my screen-saver to view pictures of my darling offpsring via slideshow. By the third, I had weeded the garden, re-ordered the medicine cabinet and penned the first chapter of my soon-to-be bestselling expose of bribery, corruption and yes, murder in the cutthroat world of private school admission. (And for the price of a year’s tuition, I won’t even name names.)
All of which begs the question: what the hell is it that other childless people are doing with their vast amounts of free time? Why haven’t they discovered how to halt the aging process, re-direct the fat siphoned off from liposuction into one’s breasts, and created a spray tan that doesn’t leave you looking like the victim of a nuclear accident? At the very least, you’d think they could come up with the cure for the fat ankles one gets after a long haul flight.
I know I’m asking the wrong person about this, dear C, since you are almost certainly too busy with your life as a single mother of four to respond. But if you could manage to put down the gun and the cocktail long enough to acknowledge receipt, then at least I’d know you were still alive.
Faithfully,
P.
