I was at work on my memoir, A Bad Marriage Is Fattening, when I heard Paul’s agitated voice in the back of my mind.   “Joanie, I have to talk to you!”

I stopped writing and looked at Paul.  “When have you ever wanted to talk to me?”

“I need to speak to you about The Redhead Riter.  She placed a curse on me!”

“What type of a curse did she place on you?”

“You know perfectly well the curse she placed on me!  She wished my house would be crawling with locusts and frogs.”

“Paul – she was only joking.”

“No she wasn’t.”

Paul then proceeded to tell me this incredible story.  He and his wife, Desireé, went to sleep the night Redhead Riter had placed the curse on him.  Desireé wanted to make love.   So being a dutiful husband, Paul mounted her.  Only problem was Paul couldn’t get an erection.

Wanting to satisfy his wife, Paul started willing himself to get an erection when suddenly Desireé got extremely excited and started moaning passionately, “Ohhh, my God, Paul – don’t stop!  You’re amazing!  Absolutely amazing!  Don’t stop!  Keeping doing what you’re doing!  Ohhh, my God, Paul!”

Paul did not have the least idea what Desireé was so excited about because his penis was completely limp.  But he stayed on top of her while she wildly thrust her hips up and down.

“Do you love me?” Desireé whispered in Paul’s ear.

“You know I love you, pussycat,” Paul whispered back in Desireé’s ear.

I screamed at Paul, “How could you call Desireé pussycat when that was the name you called me?”

“I know, Joanie – but we’re not married anymore.”

“But I can’t believe that you call her the same name that you called me.”

“Do you want to argue with me or do you want me to continue on with my story?”

“Okay, go on with your story, but I would think out of respect for what we once shared you would have found another name to call your present wife.”

“Respect?  You’re a good one to talk about respect.  Don’t even get me started on respect, Joanie.  How respectful is it for you to blab to the world about our marriage?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, but thankfully you have no readers – so I know that you’re only talking to yourself.”

“Paul, why are we arguing?”

“Because that’s all we ever do when we’re together is argue.”

“Okay, just continue on with you story and forget that I ever said anything about you calling Desireé pussycat.”

“Where was I?”

“You were mounted on top of Desireé.  Your penis was limp.  And she was getting it on with you like you were God’s gift to women.”

“Oh yeah, so then she said, ‘Paul, talk dirty to me!’  And I was taken aback because Desireé had never asked me to talk dirty to her before.  So I whispered in her ear, ‘Dirty, dirty, dirty!’  And she screamed, ‘No!  Talk dirty to me like you’re a man on fire!’”

But before I could say a word Desireé let out an ear-piercing scream and climaxed.  “Oh, my God, Paul — you were dynamite tonight!  Simply dynamite!” Desireé said happily and then she fell asleep.

“For a long time I laid in bed wondering about Desireé’s strange orgasm — and then I felt something clammy hopping around under the covers.  I quickly turned on the nightlight, threw back the covers and that’s when I saw this frog staring back at me.  ‘Honey,’ I said to Desireé, ‘I think I just found your dynamite. . .’”

(To be continued. . .)

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For the first two years after Paul left, I did not sleep through the night.  I’d go to sleep only to awake several hours later with murderous thoughts rushing through my mind about how I could murder Paul and get away with it.

In my head I was convinced that no jury of twelve women, whose husbands had also betrayed them would ever convict me and send me to jail for murdering Paul.  Convict me?  They would applaud me and say, “You poor thing, what you went through with that man – and now you’re going to write a memoir called A Bad Marriage Is Fattening.  Isn’t that the truth!  We just love the title.”  In my fantasy, my ideal twelve female jurors were all fat like me.  Not one of them weighed under two hundred pounds.  And they all idolized me.  I was their hero for doing my husband in.

“Ohhh, Joan, when your book comes out will you remember that we let you get away with murder – and will you give us autograph copies of your book?”

“I certainly will.”

What a beautiful fantasy this was and what a small price to pay for murdering Paul – twelve autograph copies of A Bad Marriage Is Fattening.

But then there was the other fantasy.  And it wasn’t quite as beautiful as my twelve overweight women jurors.  What if fate dealt me the unkindest blow of all and gave me a jury of twelve men who had cheated on their wives and then left them for another woman?  I wouldn’t even let my head go there.

And there was another thing I knew as I laid awake all those sleepless nights plotting Paul’s demise.  I knew that someday Paul would get what he deserved — for I believed in karma.  What goes around comes around.  And I wondered what his karma would be for so coldly casting me out of his life like I was yesterday’s garbage.

In time I came to realize that my fantasies were not that unusual.   Many women fantasized about murdering their husbands who betrayed them.  The key was not to act upon those fantasies.  Like Betty Broderick did when she shot to death her ex-husband and his new wife.

After awhile I started sleeping through the nights and my thoughts about killing Paul subsided.  I can’t remember exactly when I came to my senses and had what I can only describe as an epiphany.  I realized Paul was more valuable to me alive than dead.  What had I been thinking to want to murder Paul?  He had been ordered by the court to pay me alimony.  I was getting enough money that I did not have work.  I could stay home and write – that is every writers dream.

I quickly began to pray for Paul’s good health and that no catastrophe would befall him.  I did not want to lose my golden goose – at least not until my memoir came out and was a bestseller.

Eight more years passed and never once did I wish Paul physical harm.

This past October I joined an online community of bloggers — The Redhead Riter – Witty, Intelligent & Addictive Community.

It’s a strange thing about karma and the way it plays itself out.  Long ago I had prayed that Paul would get what he deserved.  But then I forgot completely about it.  However, karma always has a way to even the score.  It came quite unexpectedly in the form of a comment on my blog, or rather shall I say curse.  The leader of our community, Redhead Riter, left a comment on a post I had written called The Proverbial Question.  It read in part, “Sending LOVE to Joan and PESTILENCE to Paul.”  Then she went on to write, “Guess he is going to find lots of locusts and frogs crawling around his house soon.”

And Paul did.

(To be continued. . .)

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