Divorce Me, Divorce Me Not

You say you would never stay with a spouse who cheated on you. You shake your head at those suckers on Dr. Phil or whoever is the reigning talk-show shamer. Well, you say that now before you are forty-four with gastro-intestinal distress. You say that before you have two kids in the most expensive city in the world. You say that, but you won’t have to move back to Long Island and probably regain your accent—cawfee.

Listen, I totally agree with you. What’s the big deal about the accent? I love the ocean. Millions with gastro-distress date—probably. That’s why probiotics is such a big business. I already put up a profile on Match, with no picture and an alias. Baby steps.

Before I bust on my husband, Maxime, I might as well be fair and put in something from his point of  view. Please read in a French accent:

I am not the only one to be at fault. She keeps on me like a magnifying glass. She cuts my balls. I don’t want a roommate. I want a wife. It’s like Roz stopped kissing me. First she said it was because she had morning breath. Then it just stopped. If it is just to be roommates then I don’t think so. It’s not possible.

Maxime has a point. But remember two things: One, I told him that his kisses were too wet. And he said, “That’s how I kiss.” Two, I was pretty low after the first baby was born. We should never have moved to that house before she was born.