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Fights of our lives

According to a new study, married couples who fight live longer. The theory is that anger is not bottled inside, slowly disolving the internal organs in a bitter sauce of regret and frustration until one day the pancreas thinks it’s the heart and the brain thinks it’s a tongue and the intestines get delusional. Buckets are kicked.

My husband and I fight. This shouldn’t surprise any couple who has been together longer than six months.

Our fights, like most, are stoopid.

On a night when cooking is out of the question:Where should we eat? Ooh, boy. Especially if one of us says “I don’t care.”

When getting ready for church: I thought you were going to dress the baby! There’s nothing like hitting the road early on a Sunday morning, frustrated with each other. Thankfully, by the time worship begins we are contrite and sorry and feeling like two big dummies.

When a child is sick: Don’t Google rare and horrible diseases! But what if she has Schistosomiasis? Does our insurance cover Schistosomiasis?

Whilst cleaning for guests: A certain person’s inability to focus on things people will see, not the state of the garage floor or under the beds. Kitchen floor? Clean it! Bathroom sink? Get the pound of blue toothpaste outta there! Junk mail and credit card offer shredding? Not so much. Unless you think my mom is going to obtain a Capital One credit card in my name so she can go on a bitchin’ wakeboarding vacation in the Ozarks.

Embarrassing the spouse on one’s blog: Just doing my part to live a long life.

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