The marital, parental exemption

Ever since I announced publicly on this blog that the phrase "What Up With That" is driving me loca, Milo has been texting me the exact words insistently. Yes, that's right. About every other day or so, I get a text that reads like this:
Wooooo weeeeeeee what up wit dat?! What up wit dat?!

And this from Milo, who hasn't texted me before in the entire five years we've known eachother.

That, dear people, is the risk you run for bearing your soul to the world as I have done. For opening your vulnerable moments to scrutiny. So every other day or so, I find myself angrily muttering "that Milo!" and shaking my fist at the gawds.

But how can you be really angry with fella who's just about to get married? A fella who's about to become a dad? You can't. He has earned himself a month or two of exemption, because surely, surely, just before you get bethrothed and spawn a critter, shouldn't you be exempt from any expectations of responsibility.

So for the next month or two, I will bear my cross with silent fortitude.

But seriously, Milo? A reminder every other day? What up with that?!