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Last Sunday marked the 6th-year anniversary that Jess and walked down the isle. Okay, we didn't really walk down an isle, but that sounds more poetic. At any rate, Sunday also marked the 6th-year anniversary of a silent battle that Jess and I have been fighting. Those of you who are married (and I'm pretty sure that I know all three of my devoted blog readers - and you are all married) probably also fight silent battles with your spouse. For example (this is not the battle we will be discussing here), Jess and I fight a silent battle each winter when she puts the car heat on feet-vents only and I wait until she is looking the other way to hit the top-vents only button (only to notice my feet burning five minutes later). These are the type of battles that are not worth getting in an argument about, so you try to take care of them silently, only to realize you are losing the battle 6 years later when the repeated offenses have rubbed your senses so raw that you may explode in a fit of rage the next time it happens (at least that is how I feel).

What could you possibly be silently fighting over for six years you ask? The answer: Toothpaste lids. I cannot stand lids or zippers that are not properly secured. This coincides beautifully with Jess's longstanding tradition of never securing any of these things. The Coup de grâce of this battle is the toothpaste lid. A few years ago, I gave up this battle and decided that Jess and I needed our separate tubes of paste. That worked for a few months until she decided that although we have separate tubes in each of our bathroom drawers, it is more convenient in some way that I don't understand to always open my drawer and use my toothpaste. Usually, knowing my hatred towards unsecured toothpaste lids, she will give the lid a half-hearted half twist to appease me; however, this morning was the last straw forcing me to bring this silent battle to the blog battle grounds. I woke up this morning to find my toothpaste on the counter with the lid missing and Jess's toothpaste safely stored in her drawer. I searched for the lid and restored it, but alas, it was too late. Upon brushing my teeth, I squeezed (I really wanted to use squoze here, but apparently that is not a word) the paste out of the tube and received new paste trying to battle its way through the old, dried ring of paste around the opening. Gross. So now Jess has two tubes of paste in her drawer and I have a brand new tube in mine...and we will continue to fight this battle until our death.

Just to short-end Jess's most likely defense argument, yes, I know that if I brushed my teeth each night, I could monitor this more closely...but this cannot be the answer!