The Fine Line Between Love and Nausea

This morning, my email is out of commission so a number of people are, fortunately or unfortunately, not receiving the kind of verbal beatings that follow this:

1. We've been friends for thirty years. You keep a secret from me. Not an ordinary "I slept with your boyfriend" kind of secret, but a really big one.
2. I find out. And I find out you specifically didn't tell me.
3. After the murderous impulses subside, after I've stopped picturing you as a bloody pinata, after I've stopped trying to think of where I'm going to dump your corpse so as to confuse law enforcement officials in New Jersey where household pets received casual training in how to locate bodies downwind of the largest garbage dump in the world, after I've calmed down enough to make eye contact without trying to put soup spoons through your contact lenses, I rehearse conversations in my head. In these conversations, you get the point and never keep another big secret from me again, even if you *are* sleeping with my boyfriend.

Miss Sasha has inherited the quirky temper, but her fiance lacks the patience for diplomacy:

Hey,
How's life? Things around here are crazy...David saw that I was stressed when I got back and did the responsible thing...he took me shooting! I got to use my new .22, it is great!

Well, it's nice to see my beautiful daughter carry on the tradition of violence-based peacemaking.

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This time, I doubt I'll get past the stabbity stab stabbing fantasy anytime soon. I almost feel sorry for my colleagues at today's business lunch.

Perhaps there'll be lobster bisque?