Dear Judith,
I found a copy of one of your books in the store today: How Did I Get to Be Forty & Other Atrocities. I recognized the illustrations immediately. When I was a kid, my parents had a copy of one of your books.
No doubt it was a poorly chosen gift from one of their jaded friends since my dad usually bought exciting science fiction novels and at that time my mom stuck mostly with books about gardening and interior design and Tasha Tudor. Nice books about making the world more beautiful.
Your book, as I recall, was about how men are untrustworthy, how marriages always go stale, how having children is a burden that leaves women feeling bitter and fat and undesirable. Maybe I am remembering things differently, but I don't think so.
I read that book several times--when I was way too young. And now I know who to blame for my extensive hangups about marriage, aging, and having children.
I realize your books are meant to by humorous and real. I realize that they are not meant for children. I also realize that blaming you for any hangups I might have is completely unfair and irrational. This does not change the fact that I am seriously mad at you right now.
I'll be sure to send you my therapists' bill some day when I get a therapist.
Yours,
Jennifer
PS You are SO going to be hearing from my mother-in-law when she finds out about this.
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