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The Waiting Game

So, yesterday I didn’t receive an expletive-filled phone call, nor did I arrive home to see Adam on his hands and knees examining our carpet with a fine-toothed comb, hoping to locate the scene of the crime.

I can only assume that this means one of two things, 1) He has an incredibly good poker face and is saving this little tidbit to bust out at a suitable time to even the score (Like if he scratches the car or I find him in bed with another woman. “Oh yeah Madeleine? Well let’s talk about the PAINT ON THE CARPET! BOOM!”) or 2) He hasn’t read it yet, and is thus blissfully unaware of what transpired one room over on that fateful Sunday.

Since Adam is physically incapable of keeping a secret and his face displays every conceivable emotion that he is ever experiencing, from joy to feeling a bit gassy, I feel it’s safe to assume the latter.

Oh Adam, I TOLD you reading would come in handy one day. You are missing a very valuable opportunity to say “I told you so”, the coveted currency of marriage.

In other news, I took a little trip up to the sex attic this morning and I noticed that there were two beer cans sitting in the middle of the room. Now either we are hosting a ghost that appreciates a good brew, or Adam is actually using what could ONLY have been the former holding chamber of a depraved psychopath, as a hangout.

It’s the creepiest room in our house, has no furniture, is only accessible by a ladder and this, THIS is the place you choose to chill?

What is this life? Who am I married to? I feel like at some point this blog will become Exhibit A for a prosecutor somewhere. Good luck buddy.

How is it only Tuesday?

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