Hello? I think there's been some mistake. The life I ordered was the one with the gorgeous, helpful husband, the two well-mannered, angelic children, and the self-cleaning dream house. Here's what was delivered: Matt, the sort-of soul mate with great stories and sketchy domestic skills; Emily, a sweet little girl who could get carsick on a tricycle; weirdly sensitive toddler Jonah; and a home perpetually coated in grit produced by the renovation from hell. I'm pretty sure I didn't sign on for this. But is it wrong to wax nostalgic for a time when I actually used my suede brush on suede? When sex was a priority instead of a luxury? There is a return policy, right? I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Matt was seen (by my best friend, in broad daylight) cuddling up to Girl With Purple Hair. And I'll find out what it is, just as soon as I have the nerve to confront him. Until then, I'll take refuge in work, mothering, and the somewhat flirtatious attentions of the P.I. I hired to follow my husband around.
