So a few people have asked permission to send the link to this blog to other people. You really must be kidding. Did any of you read the New York Times Magazine this Sunday? "Queen of the Mommy Bloggers"? When I am not wanting to be Natalie Portman, I want to be Heather B. Armstrong. Look out, Mommy Bloggers, Amy the Bosom Blogger is goin' viral. In other words, please send the link wherever you want, as often as you want.
Some of you have also been uncertain about how to become a "follower." In the right-hand column there is a button that looks like this:
I think you have to click it and then set up a Google account if you don't already have one. With luck, you'll then be able to follow my every thought. What could be better than that.
Others have asked about the artwork behind the text. It is simply a template provided by Blogger.com, but it reminds me of the work of a talented artist who is one of my dearest friends.
So last night I took a pad and pen to bed for that 2:30 AM brain storm. I woke up with blue flair ink all over my "Let Sleeping Dogs Lie" PJs. I also woke with a thudding heart, clenched fists and teeth, in a thick boil of nightmare rage. For the fourth night in a row (a number that perfectly coincides with the number of nights that my husband has been away from home) I woke myself screaming at the absent spouse. "NO I WILL NOT MOVE OUT OF THE HOUSE SO THAT YOUR 30-YEAR OLD MISTRESS CAN MOVE IN MORE COMFORTABLY WITH HER ENTIRE FAMILY!" "I DON'T CARE IF YOU WOULD RATHER LIVE WITH A 30-YEAR OLD, BREASTED WOMAN THAN WITH ME!!! I SIMPLY REFUSE TO MOVE OUT OF MY HOUSE FOR THAT BITCH!!"
I wrote on my pad: "Husband abandonment dream."
Having had the dream four times now, I think I have it well analyzed. On February 14 I had my breasts removed. On February 25 my husband left to go sailing with his buddies in the Caribbean Sea. Don't think I don't know what you are thinking. "That rat!" "That selfish, spineless, thoughtless, pig!" "How dare he abandon his wife at such a critically sensitive, painful time in her life." "At a time when he should be demonstrating 24 hours a day his deep commitment to supporting her through this tragic event". "At a time when he should heroically rise to fulfill the promises he made 25 years ago to be her faithful partner in sickness and in health..." (or however that went...it's possible we deleted that part of the vows in an attempt to make them sound more homemade. That might have been a mistake.)
The truth is I forced him to go. It is a trip he takes annually. He and his buddies had long ago bought their tickets, chartered the boat, and plotted their course. I refused to be the reason he missed this trip. He needed a break from this experience more than I did, having endured three years of successive family illnesses and losses before this fresh calamity.
Nevertheless, I had to practically kick him out of the house. (Could that be the source of the house eviction part of the dream?) I had to collect signed, sworn statements from five different family members that testified to round-the-clock monitoring, feeding and nursing every day of his absence.
Since he's left he's been sending texts that sound a little sad...but how could they sound otherwise. It would just be tasteless to rave about the wonderful time he is having frolicking in the sea and sun and warm tropical breezes while I sit in a chilly, gloomy house listening to the incessant clatter of icy rain pounding on the gray piles of snow topped with smaller piles of melting dog poop, nursing horrible, mutilating scars that have robbed me of my sexuality. (I hope he doesn't read this 'til he's back on dry land. He might throw himself overboard. I also hope he is having a happy, guilt-free time.)
The rationale goes like this. I have a long road ahead of me. I need a well rested, relaxed and handsomely tanned sailor to hold my bald little head over the toilet while I puke up my guts over the next six months.
Thank you, Amy, for giving me more laughs than I've had since the good old days (i.e., the 1980's) of SNL. From the newly blue sleeping dog pjs, to the vivid description of the "husband abandonment" dream, to "rethinking" the homemade vows, to the visions of "poopsicles" in the melting snow, to the "man overboard" fantasy, to the terror and truth-laced last sentence (at which point the laughter ceased), your blog has been a remarkable example of art as therapy and as balm. Thank you for both. I wish we could give you something back in equal measure, but for now, sending love and hugs across the wires.
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