Fair is fair. Or foul, as the case may be.

After Mass I was sitting at the parish KofC pancake breakfast with my family and the Desperate Irish Housewife family, and (after a string of conversational turns that led up to it) Mark volunteered that my PhD experience was comparable to Macbeth.

I turned on him.  You have never compared my graduate education to Macbeth before.

I haven’t?

Mr. Desperate Irish Housewife interjected:  I’ve heard people compare graduate school to Sisyphus before.

I insisted, No!  I’ve never heard you say that in my life!

Oh, well, I’ve thought it lots of times, he said.  Anyway, it’s like this:  Once you got in far enough, you had to see it through to the end.

The bitter, bloody end, I take it, said I.

Ha!  said Mr. Desperate Irish Housewife.  That’s perfect for a chemical engineer!  "Out, out damned spot!"

See, it matches very well, said Mark.  All except the c-section part.

Thanks.  Don’t wish that on me, I’m seven months pregnant.

And then there’s all the paperwork at the end —

Yes! said Mr. Desperate Irish Housewife.  The forests are marching upon you!  And — "bubble, bubble, toil and trouble!" Ha!   He stirred an imaginary cauldron.  How supportive you must have been, he said to Mark.

Oh, I was very, very supportive, Mark said, pointing at me as if to stave off any protests.

Supportive!  Like Lady Macbeth!  She was very supportive!  Ha!  said Mr. Desperate Irish Housewife. 

We all know what happened to her, of course.