Yep. Family commitments mean this is a reprisal of a popular post. (It first appeared Aug. 31, 2009.) If all goes according to plan, Tartitude shall return to “normal” this coming Friday.

I don’t think my family is all that happy with me at present. Do you know whose fault that is? Yours.

That’s right. It’s because of your encouragement and pats on the back that I’ve begun to add the label “witty” to my self-concept. And now, for the first time ever in my life, I’ve begun to let loose a little in public, thinking that my observations might be welcome.

Wrong.

For example, this morning I was snuggling with my husband in that blissful state of twilight sleep and tangled limbs that is one of the best parts about being married. To set the stage, you have to know that P’s on holiday at present and he hasn’t shaved for a week. His whiskers have now reached that delightful stage of softness where they literally demand to be touched.

So there I was, mindless stroking, heedless of the danger that lurked, when a witticism caught me unawares:

Him: “You like my whiskers don’t you?”

Me, drowsy: “Mmmmm…”

Him, more insistently: “No, you really, really like them, don’t you?”

Me, hand stilled, one eye propped open suspiciously because I’m sensing he has an agenda: “Uhhhhhhhh……..yup.”

Him: “They kinda make me look hot, don’t they?”

Me, both eyes open, now registering a distinctly cocky expression that implies upcoming work on my part: “Hot?”

Him, slightly indignant at the doubt in my tone: “Yea, hot.” He sits up. “Hot like those half-naked guys whose pictures you post on your site. Hot like Sean Connery.”

Me, his reference to my blog having now reminded me that I’m a wit: “Well, yeah. Hot. Absolutely.” *his grin re-emerges* “Minus the Sean, and minus the Connery.”

See? See??? There’s an ego revealed in those words up there, folks, and that’s all directly attributable to you and your kindness. Every time you visit, every time you comment, every time you wish me well in other venues, a tiny portion of my marriage dies. It’ll be your fault if my children come from a fragmented home.

So I ask, did none of you pause to consider the consequences of your kindness? No matter how much you might wish the universe to be different, you can’t unfrag the hard-drive, can’t unbrew the coffee, and most certainly cannot unshave the pubes.

And if I get divorced — and my husband stands up in court and claims I’ve had a personality change since starting this blog, that I’m not the woman he married — he’ll probably call ever single one of you to the witness stand. Are you prepared for that?

Oh, you laugh now, but I’m only giving you fair warning. My husband is a very methodical man. That courtroom will be the scene of a blood-bath.

Unless… Maybe there is a way through this thicket… I know! Rather than repress my spirit and go back to the dark ages, I could tell him he kinda looks like this guy:

What say the Tartitude? Do you think that’ll work?

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