let's talk behind the husband's back (self-absorbed musings)

So, as we were preparing dinner tonight (read: I was cooking two elaborate gourmet dishes, darting around the kitchen at the speed of light, while guzzling Blanc de Noirs; the Sober Husband peeled some potatoes, but got distracted by taking a work call, making a note to himself, and sending an email), I asked what I believed was a rhetorical question: "So, did you read my blog the last couple of days?" This little conversation starter was intended to kick off a discussion of primal mothering scandals and my discovery that, like me, there are HUNDREDS of people out there around the globe who are still, six years or so after her fall from primal mothering grace, obsessed with Jennifer "Mango Mama" van Laanen Smit (I say this because since I shared my memories of her, suddenly hundreds of people running Google searches for "mango mama controversy" and "where is Jennifer van Laanen mango mama" are landing on this blog, and I suspect 99.9% of them are disappointed by their snarky find, having hoped instead that Mango Mama would have ditched her lover, reconciled with her husband, had another unassisted childbirth in a returnable Rubbermaid tub, and was living the life of Waldorfian, vegan ecstasy in Hawaii).

That discussion was derailed when, shocked (remember, I am somewhat self-absorbed) I heard the husband say, "Um, no."

"When was the last time you read my blog?"

"A few weeks ago?"

"WHAT?? You aren't a fan?"

"Well, of course I'm a fan. I don't have to read it. I live your blog."

"But" (pouting to the extent one can while stirring, chopping, crushing, and sauteing are occurring simultaneously) "there are other men out there who read me EVERY DAY. They check it several times a day!" (Incidentally the core readership of this blog is primarily male, which interests me because when I started it, I thought it was going to be Another One Of Those Mommy Blogs. I put the blog on a couple of mommy blog rings, figuring it would fit in there, but that was foolish of me).

The husband assumed a lofty tone. "Those men glean what falls through my fingers onto the floor."

I don't think I broke my resolution not to roll my eyes at the Sober Husband, but the only thing which kept that resolution intact was that my eyes were being used to monitor the state of my pans.