(I’m not responsible for the racist-looking cartoon. Just
wanted you to have the best possible audio recording.)
Meaning my wife. And Barbara. And Edna. And all the others who are just good of heart. I love you. It’s not a sexual thing per se, although (she’ll kill me for telling you this) Lady Laird was running around bottomless this morning, and I’m so old my first thought was how cute that is. Time to turn the old stallion out to pasture, I guess. (Well, we’ll see about that when she gets home.)
I’ve been obsessed with my boy Raebert. I really thought he might die. But did I do the heavy lifting? No. Lady Laird did. Like she always does. I suffered and she did all the work. I woke her up when Raebert was having a trembling fit. Because I didn’t know what to do. Women know how to be moms. Almost invariably. Men suck at that.
The only thing I’m good for is writing obituaries.
Which I don’t have to write one of today. Because I have a good woman in my life. See?
We, meaning men and me specifically, tend to take too much for granted. It never occurred to me that my peremptory abandonment of this site would cause anyone to lose sleep.
It never occurred to me? No. Because I’m an egotistical jerk. Who is continuously forgiven for being so by a good woman. A good woman all other men of my acquaintance are terrified of. They admire her, love her, and all that. But they shrink and hide when she gets that look in her eye. Nobody who knows her can believe she puts up with me. I don’t either.
I love Raebert. He loves her more than me. As he should. As we all should. She knows exactly where to stroke the place that hurts.