Hello, there; Mira sends her apologies but she just isn't in the mood to chat right now. That's because Deanna's marriage is broken probably past the point of repair and she can't decide which of the warring parties she likes the least for putting Meredith and Robin through all this. I won't tell too many tales out of school but will tell you that she and Mike argued at cross purposes about his "willingness" to make things work. Simply put, she's pissed off because he outed himself as a bisexual and is thus "embarrassing" her and he's got his shorts in a wad because she shows signs that she can live without him and thus "proving" that he's a useless failure who should, after all, have been left on the curb with the rest of the trash when Liz was born.
The problem, of course, is that the Angry Twit Deanna that was the terror of anyone foolhardy enough to get on her bad side is on the rampage again; remember when she said Mira was a tyrant and I a puppet? That's because someone didn't buy into the whole wounded gazelle act she pulled all through High School and forced her to apologize to her sitting-duck designated enemies. On the other hand, Mike is too damned dense to realize that he snatched defeat out of the jaws of victory by folding too soon; granted, he wasn't raised to think or to do for himself but there comes a time when you have to cut your losses.
Speaking of which, I don't much like Liz and Anthony's chances; she can't seem to be comfortable where she is and, unless I'm reading him wrong, is sick of dealing with her and her insane family. This should make their trip to Milborough as entertaining as having to listen to Dee tell us how right we were to want nothing to do with Michael. Why she feels the need to go down and bellow at Elly for her failure to provide a son pliable enough to be Mr Dee is beyond me; the best thing to do in that situation is to avoid the stressor.
In any event, I have to go down and stock up on plastic martini glasses; they make less of a mess when slammed on countertops by angry women. Till next we meet:
Yours,
Wilf.