I am heartbroken over the Armstrong split. I do not mean that ironically. My heart is sad that Dooce is separated from her husband.
She’s like our blog mother. She started it all. I feel like our blog mommy and our blog daddy are getting a blog divorce. They have this wonderful love story. She became an unheard of success, by all accounts with his tech support. They had two children and a vasectomy together. There is supposed to be a happily ever after.
This is why I will never take up running. Heather met Christy Turlington. Then her already obsessive bordering on pathological workouts became preparation for a marathon. Finally, she ran the marathon and her husband moved out. There but for the ass of lard go I.
It’s probably unrelated. Or maybe not.
I follow a couple of bloggers who write about their marriages (Dooce, The Bloggess). From the perspective of the quirky wife, the interchanges are fonts of hilarity. Bloggess Lawson is especially successful at creating a delightful persona. What man doesn’t want a wife with a compulsive shopping habit that manifests itself as an unquenchable desire for stuffed and freeze-dried dead things?
In Mr. Dooce’s blog, Heather’s mental illness doesn’t sound as fucking adorable as she portrays it. The Bloggess’ reported banter with Victor frequently has me laughing until tears roll down my face. A whimsical read, but I cannot imagine being in a marriage where those dialogues actually happen. I choose to believe that much is left out and more is embellished. I hope.
Here is a real life example from my own marriage:
Me: Can you carry the diaper bag? Shall I get the other one? I know you said you didn’t want to carry the new one.
Odie: No, it’s fine. I don’t mind if people think I’m gay.
Me: No one will think you’re gay in that shirt.
Hilarious, right?
Here’s what happened next.
Odie: (beat) That was shitty. (He leaves the room to change his shirt)
I feel horrible that I hurt his feelings. I didn’t mean to. It was a knee jerk response. Sometimes, I cannot turn the comedy off. Plus, it wasn’t planned. I hate the shirt. It’s a two-tone, blue and gray athletic shirt made by Champion that he bought at Target for ten dollars. I know it’s comfortable because he wears it all the time. And I hate it. Every time I do the laundry, I contemplate throwing it out.
Odie was quiet. When we got in the car, buckled both the girls in, and headed out, I turned to him and said, “Honey, I’m sorry about the thing with the shirt. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” He accepted my apology, and after a while, everything got back to normal.
Throwing gallons (or was it quarts?) of milk at your husband’s head or purchasing hundred-dollar metal chickens out of spite may make hilarious reading, but I doubt it makes great marriages.
I don’t want these marriages to fail. It is my dearest hope that Heather and Jon reconcile. They have two children and two dogs together. Is there a cat in there? Maybe a mountain lion? There is definitely a gay assistant. Marathons with Christy Turlington cannot love you back, Heather! Twenty-six miles will not hold you.
I cannot presume to know what is going on in the Armstrong marriage. But I’m gonna. She and he both wrote that she asked him to seek employment outside of Armstrong Enterprises or Industries. I could look it up, but why? He wrote that this was a good thing and asked his readers to keep him in mind for a job. Number one resume skill: worked behind the scenes to propel wife to internet superstardom while dodging flying containers of dairy.
Reading between the lines, it sounds like she told him GET A FUCKING JOB.
I know a group of women who “outwork” their husbands. In some cases their husbands make less money due to the line of work they’re in. In other cases, the husbands have less education or experience. Sadly, one or two have husbands who lost jobs in the recession and never found another. My girlfriend joked about starting a “wives of kept men” club. Only I don’t get to join because my husband makes as much money as I do (when I’m working). Joking aside, I can tell you that my girlfriends don’t like it. It doesn’t feel good to them to work harder than their husbands and contribute more. Now, if these ladies came home from their jobs and found spotless houses, perfectly-cared-for children, finances in order, and a healthy yet savory meal on the table, I’m pretty sure it would balance out better. None of them do.
Dooce recently wrote about her mornings alone with her daughters. I am bemused. Jon wrote that they are “on speaking terms.” The gossip in me is dying for the story. And I know that pisses Heather off, but I can’t help it. SHE made their life public, now she gets all private on us. To want him gone, she has got to be PISSED. Conversely, if it is him who left, he would have to be unable to stand the sight of her rock-hard ass to want to live somewhere other than the mansion he shared with his two children. I know couples who split up and lived under the same roof for years in order to co-parent. There needs to be some real enmity there if the guest room on another floor isn’t enough distance.
Although “Enmity” is a terrible name for a stripper.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 