Dear boyfriend's dad's wife*,
*Notice that we don't use the term "stepmom." Your husband's kids would rather slam their heads against a brick wall coated in maple syrup near a bunch of hungry bees than acknowledge you as a legitimate part of your life.
My first introduction to you was shortly before you married the boyfriend's dad, when he and his sister were in the throws of investigating whether or not their father was indeed about to legally engage in bigamy. It's surprising you didn't have a hand in this, actually - their mum had filed twice and I can imagine you were eager to have the dad all to yourself. Then I met you at your wedding and after wondering why on earth you'd wear a lavender wedding gown at your second marriage you, apparently having read my mind, proceeded to corner me for what felt like an eternity and tell me the story of how at your age you couldn't wear a white dress, but as luck would have it it was the first order of a purple dress the store had taken. Imagine that. I still think a cream linen suit would have been more appropriate, but what do I know.
Not having had to deal with you for the past 4 years has been quite a gem. Sure, there have been snippets of your annoyance passed through the grapevine. Who could forget the time you donated all of the boyfriend's suits to GoodWill without letting him know, forcing him to purchase a new one from TopMan hours before his friend's wedding. Also, the sister did mention how you caused a big fuss at the dad's birthday meal, something about it not being all about you. Shocking, I must say.
Now that you are in my country I am looking back on the time we've spent apart as nothing less than magical. Woman, you do not shut up. You have been complaining since before you even got here - the boyfriend could hear you moaning in the background about how cold the weather was in SF while he was on the phone with his father. It wasn't what you'd expeted, you say. Have you heard of the internet? It's a wonderful place for looking up facts such as the temperature in various parts of the world. Having done this would have also prevented your brother calling from the east coast at the crack of dawn our time to tell you what the weather is going to be in Kiev in 2 weeks time when he gets married.
When you asked what you could do to help prepare dinner, I was thinking, "Holding your head under water for 5 minutes would be lovely?" but thought that might be inappropriate. See, that's what we call a filter - you obviously lack one. This was most clearly demonstrated when you proceeded to tell me the details of your first marriage in front of your husband's son. You reckon he was quite hurt and that's something you'll have to live with the rest of your life. While I've never had the pleasure of meeting husband #1, I can say with a fair degree of certainly that your conscience can rest easy and losing you in his life wasn't remotely as painful as you fancy it was.
May I be so bold as to ask a personal questions? Do you ever shut up long enough to breathe? I find it ironic that you complained that your mother had your father wrapped around her little finger when you clearly have your husband's nether-regions in a vice grip. He's a nice guy, but you'd barely no it since you never let him speak, and your presence doesn't exactly give one faith in his tastes. You dictate the man's ideas to him and then shout at him when he doesn't support what your saying. You want to know why he poured your drink so heavy last night? Maybe it was to knock you out!
I know tomorrow you're leaving for a few days, but knowing that you'll be back for the weekend is like knowing that you've got a few days of rest between a colonoscopy by an untrained sadist and a root canal performed by someone whose only experience has been on a Dr. Drill & Fill. I can safely say that by the time you leave for real I'll have had enough of you for years to come. Hell, since I've heard everything you could possibly have to tell me about your daughter, her job, your first husband, you parents' marriage, your mother's death, your father's death, your brother's bride-to-be, your courtship with the dad, your harp playing, your plans for retirement, your various bodily ailments, including but not limited to hip replacement, rheumatoid arthritis, and sciatica, your daughter's allergies, and many, many other things I couldn't have possibly taken in because the sheer number of words emitted from your mouth per minute is mind-boggling I cannot imagine, nor do I care to, what else you could possibly talk about. Our brief conversational forays into the world of politics over dinner have left me with a keen desire to remove my own skin 1 square centimeter at a time with a rusty grapefruit spoon rather than listen to another one of your moronic comments.
We talked briefly about Harry Potter. Have you ever met J.K. Rowling? I get the impression she may have formatted the Death Eaters in your likeness, because every moment with you saps one's will to live. I will use the next few days to store up happy thoughts and use them as a defense against the black hole of hope that emerges in your presence until that time when we part ways. One can only hope that it'll be another 4 years before I have to share a postal code with you again.
Your Truly,
The Hostess.
