Little Things

Marriage is made up by the little things.  You know, like arguing about who steals the covers.  Right now I really, really, really want to take the camera into the bedroom and shoot a picture of the bed so my hubby can see, REALLY see that the blankets are pooled onto the floor on his side of the bed.  My side?  Well, it became the middle as the blankets migrated towards the floor.

While I want to be “right” about this, I recognize that: taking a picture with flash would wake him up and negate whatever rightness I thought that I could lay a claim to; it’s petty; I don’t really want to publish a picture of him half-nekked with morning chicken-head; it would probably wake up Keb; and I think he actually knows but enjoys the ongoing argument with me.  After all, when you’ve been together as long as we have, it’s hard to find good stuff to fight about.  I mean, we’re pretty close on politics save for those rare occassions when my inner-conservative comes about about money and crack-whores.  BTW, for “a fair and balanced” account, he says I push the blankets onto his side.  He’s the “victim”.



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