And I don’t know Kris if you know, but this stellar post had you nominated for a new UK-based site ‘postoftheweek.com’ which is how I came across you… hopefully you will get a few new readers from ‘across the pond’ now…

Loved. Loved. Loved this post. I’m probably gonna copy – although mine most certainly won’t be as creative as yours as I am not a writer. And being that I am about to steal a posting idea from you, I’m clearly not that clever either. Sigh

If you are ever in Evening Star have the amazing scallops and a bottle from Planet wine and remember, heaven is little places all over the country.

It’s definitely an idea worth stealing. I could provide a male version except I’ve been introspected to death the last few months and I think attempting something like this might send me into long term therapy.

“Dear C … if we had married, I’d be broke now …”

You’ve outdone yourself.

I feel strangely compelled to steal this idea and run off with it, but why bother? I’m not as good a writer and it would sound like gobbledygook.

But you have me thinking (wistfully and bitterly all at once) of my exes.

Damn, you Kris.

–anno

MC, if we had married, we’d be living in London now. We’d have an apartment in town and an estate somewhere off in the country, ski vacations at Christmas and winter holidays in Aix-en-Provence, a summer place in Finland. Two boys, both graduating soon from prep school, two dogs, and lots of live-in household help. We’d ride horses, attend soccer matches, and I’m pretty sure we’d be on a first name basis with David Beckham and Madonna, who, incidentally, was born in the same city and in the same year as I was. I would work out at the gym every day, have regularly scheduled salon appointments, and show up dutifully at your dinner parties with other investment executives wearing daring low-backed gowns and high heels, having discovered that a little bulimia compensated for all kinds of indulgences. You would, naturally, be uneasy when I arrive, never knowing just how much scotch I’d had to drink before I left, and I would occasionally mortify you with my insistence on smoking Cuban cigars. At least when I was smoking, though, I would not be talking, espousing my unpopular politics or cynical views of private equity companies and the alleged value they create. Unlike the other wives, I would not be content with my own jewelry business or clothing line and would instead take up painting – badly – on very large canvasses, for which you would feel obliged to find me an agent or reputable dealer. You would be perplexed by my obvious discontent, but between your frequent international travels and your repulsion for divorce—especially any ensuing settlement of our mutual estate—and my own wretched stubborn refusal to leave, we would totter along in our uneasy alliance, aware that we were connected, but never sure exactly why. Every once in a while, though, while you were reading the financial papers, I would sit down at our grand piano and play a nocturne by Chopin, and then that Impromptu by Hanson that I played in the living room of our dormitory where we met, and you would set your papers aside and close your eyes, and in those moments, in that music, we would feel that maybe, just maybe, we had done all right.

G., if we had managed to stay married into our 20s – marrying at 19? what were we thinking? – maybe we would have lasted. Maybe we would have figured out that conflict is an important kind of engagement, not the end of the world. I would have grown to appreciate your sustaining warmth and quiet comfort. You would have encouraged my academic ambitions and supported me while I finished my doctorate in ethics. We could be living in a log home in Marin, furnished with braided rugs, a wood-burning stove, and a solar-powered water heater. No kids, to your eternal disappointment, my relief, but several cats. I teach at Berkeley, while you direct occasional programs at the Exploratorium in San Francisco. We sip a glass of red wine every night, and eat more lentils than I strictly enjoy. Sometimes when I meet my friends for breakfast, I order bacon, extra crisp, and feel a little guilty about it. I would often wonder why you didn’t want more from life; you would resent my infernal bossiness, my relentless suggestions casting aspersions on your basic satisfaction with life. Your younger sister continues to drive me crazy with her unreasonable demands for your time and money, and I constantly complain about your inability to stand up to your family. You still smoke menthol cigarettes. I still sneak chocolate. Every night we taste these betrayals on our kisses.

P., if we had married, I’d like to think you’d still be alive. I remember you coming by, just before I married B. That kiss. “Don’t do it,” you whispered, “this is a mistake.” You were right. If we had married, you would be the head of anesthesiology of some major hospital in Chicago. We live in a large brick house in Evanston with our three daughters and chocolate labrador retriever named Rufus. I volunteer as a docent at the Art Institute, serve on the board of the library. We play bridge every Saturday with a group of friends we have known since your medical school days, and I serve whole salmon poached in court bouillon, green salads with herbs, and homemade sourdough bread. There are always fresh raspberries and a bit of dark chocolate for dessert. I worry about your cholestrol. In the evenings, we play chess, or sit on a large sofa and read the paper. If the urgency of our attraction has faded, we still have strong affection for one another. Mostly, you are still alive, and I am glad for it.

Dear M., we’ve been married for 20 years now, so I have some idea of where this one goes: one beautiful child, a house in the country, one dog, two SUVs, and a John Deere tractor. I’m still impressed by your insistence on honesty, on understanding everything from first principles: you never borrow anything from anyone, there are no cliches in your life, no false steps, no false words. Because of you, I’ve seen the Milky Way at 3 a.m. from King’s Canyon in Yosemite, gone kayaking in Maine, lived through the dot.com boom in San Francisco, built our own home, been lost and illiterate in Tokyo. If you ever doubt that I love you, remember that I gave up a trip to Italy to accompany you to Tokyo instead. I love it that you garden, that you plant trees, that you like to make things grow. I love your writing, the music you make, the fact that you have always taken care of us. So bear all this in mind when I tell you that supporting your energy, your restlessness, your agitation and occasional downright irritation is getting a little difficult. I used to joke that on my deathbed, you’d be propping me up, demanding that I listen to your latest escapade, help you figure out the next step for your story, or resolve the latest crisis at work. It was a little less humorous last November when I actually did end up in the hospital, and you actually were upset that I couldn’t read your latest installment with the attention you felt it deserved, or that after I was released—with a raging migraine—I didn’t feel like going out for dinner with you right that evening, sharing a couple of bottles of champagne, or making love until the early hours of the morning. Have you noticed that I don’t tell you my dreams anymore, that I don’t share my frustrations? Where do you think I find my comfort?

Because of you, I write. But now I am finding my voice, and it has a lot more range to explore.

This was very, very good. It’s why I keep coming back to read you.

I’m stealing it, too. :)

Thanks guy’s

Samantha

Try BestBidsAuction.com

Bravo.