Okay, so last week I gave a nice shout-out to the mistress. Lest you think I'm one of those wives just blaming the other women for my husband's affair, don't worry. Two to tango, I know, I know.

So I promised you a missive to Dear Husband, after he was spotted shoe shopping with the mistress last month.

Hey DH, those really were nice Jimmy Choos you bought her. Always knew you had good taste.

Funny though. I thought your lunches were all booked up with clients, not expeditions to find three-inch heels.

I remember getting the call late in the afternoon. "Geeg, it's Rachel. Don't know how to tell you this, but I saw your DH in the Jimmy Choo store today with someone ... "

I had fun with that, later that evening, when you got home. And don't think I wasn't thinking about this when I watched that episode of Mad Men last night, where the wife is trying to get Don Draper to admit he was having an affair.

"How was your day?" I asked casually.

"So intense," you said. "Our long position in pharma is killing us, and no way we're underwriting the new allergy drug in Curtis's pipeline."

"Let me guess. You took old man Curtis out for a nice lunch at the Yale club and broke the news to him when the appetizer arrived."

"Yep. That's how I did it. But we talked about the Yankees first."

DH, you continued to describe a lunch in perfect detail — a lunch that never happened. Impressive.

"So you made it through lunch," I said. "Did you guys go upstairs and sweat it off in the gym?"

"No. He had to go back and tell his office. But it's all good. We're both Scroll & Keys — we've survived worse than this."

I just thought I'd take a late summer moment to give a nice little shout-out to my husband's mistress: Hi, hon! Love your new Jimmy Choos! Oh, your boyfriend bought them for you? Wow.

I didn't know he — my husband, I mean — had such excellent taste in shoes!

So he went right into the Madison Avenue store with you? Did you sit on his lap as Francisco, down on his knees, measured your delicate, expensively pedicured foot? Maybe you got a quick little reflexology session while Francisco disappeared into the back to gather your requests? How cool!

Did you know that that same man yells at me when I come home with a fresh pedicure from the Korean salon next to the train station? Yells at me when he sees the shoe bill from Century 21, let alone Jimmy Choo right on Madison.

When I tell him that my pedicure was a Wednesday half-price special, he says, "Screw the pedicure... shouldn't you be going to the gym?"

Oh, he hasn't given you that disapproving little lecture? That's right, you haven't had two kids yet (and when he's with you, he doesn't have kids, either). You don't have to decide daily whether to run to the gym after work, or go straight to the big kid's hockey game, or indulge in a — oh god — a pedicure, before you hit the home front with all four cylinders running.

Oh, that's right: You can take a two-hour lunch for shoe shopping.

Right now, my lunches are spent at my desk, because I'm filling out back-to-school emergency forms, and figuring out which stores I have to zip through on my way home. You'll find me at JCPenny's, gathering back-to-school supplies.

You, you can have a Bellini at Cipriani after work (with my husband even — which is awesome, girl!) then stumble off drunkenly to the gym while he catches the train home.

Hell, after the gym you can even go to the fancy nail place that stays open until 11 pm and get that pedicure.

Why am I still here? Why am I still so pissed? Why am I even contemplating leaving one more message on his turned-off cell phone? So that I can record my fury, my angst, onto that little microchip in cell phone cyberspace for posterity? Lord knows he'll never listen to it. He'll hit '7' to erase it the second he hears, “OK, now, where are...”

Twelve years of marriage and it's come to this. He's not home because he'd rather be somewhere else. With someone else. He denies it but my 'wife radar' is in good working order. I'm sick of picturing who she might be. That's not even the point anymore. It's ABW: Anyone But the Wife. If I tell my girlfriends, they'll all just tell me to leave him, to throw him out. My therapist will again urge couples counseling. Tried that at Year Eight. Lasted the requisite six sessions, with promises to “renew," “refresh,” “re-purpose.” You know the drill.

Make more traditions. Make more efforts. Make more love. Thanks, Ladies Home Journal. Thanks Kathie Lee and Dr. Ruth and Shania Twain. I see it's worked out so well for you.

I could just lie here in the dark. I could start trawling the Internet for a lawyer. I could call that guy from the econ summit, that guy from that party three months ago: “If you're ever free on Thursday nights...”

Or I could go downstairs. Get a jump start making the kids' lunches for school in five hours. Or get the hockey gear loaded in the Tahoe now. Save me a few steps in the morning school hustle. Instead, I swallow an Ambien and knock myself out, just as I hear the car in the driveway. Tomorrow with the lunches and hockey skates. Tomorrow with the confrontation, or the ignoring – I’ll figure it out then, when I sit on the train in my suit from Loehman's. Maybe I'll start shopping at Saks again, like I did before the two kids.