Joel reads my blog.
Actually, let me rephrase that.
Joel follows my blog.
Which is a fancy-sounding way of telling y’all that he has registered his email address with The Red Tent so that the minute a new blog is posted, it instantaneously and quite miraculously flings itself through cyberspace and lands in his inbox, ready to be devoured. (Yes, you can do that!)
Strictly speaking, this is not kosher. When I last checked, the Red Tent did not permit any smelly, hairy things crossing over into the Land of a Woman’s Retreat. Back in the day, there was an invisible but very clearly understood sign which hung from the Red Tent saying Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. (Trespassers being men, obviously).
In fact, the tribe-men dropped off dinner and wine and cheese and crackers outside the tent for the time us women were in there. And when I got up this morning, there was not a single baked pie waiting for me at my front door. Not even a take-away blueberry muffin from the bakery. No alcohol. No candy. Joel had not organised any kind of sustenance.
So there you have it.
We have an intruder, friends.
Joel says he reads my blogs so I feel supported, like he’s interested in what I have to say.
Just between you and me (and now apparently Joel – Hi Joel), I suspect he reads them just to check up on me. Just to make sure I’m not spilling too much dirt on his squeaky clean good looks. And to be fair, if I’m writing something a little revealing about him, about us, I always offer him the chance to read it first and edit it if need be. This is a public forum, after all, and I know with certainty that his friends also read about what goes on inside this here tent.
But, it’s not enough. He’s gotta be kept up-to-date the minute these blogs hit the press.
So all I have to say is this:
Honey, I’m not worried. These fingers are going to keep on typing. For a loooooooong time. And if you enjoy reading about yourself and our lives that much, be a darling and leave a lasagna at the front door next time.
Happy Thursday, friends.