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Stop Being a Butthole Wife

Stop being a butthole wife.  No, I’m serious.  End it.

Let’s start with the laundry angst.  I get it, the guy can’t find the hamper.  It’s maddening.  It’s insanity.  Why, why, must he leave piles of clothes scattered, the same way that the toddler does, right?  I mean, grow up and help out around here, man.  There is no laundry fairy.

What if that pile of laundry is a gift in disguise from a God you can’t (yet) see?  Don’t roll your eyes, hear me out on this one.

I was a butthole wife.  Until my husband died.

The day my husband left earth for heaven, all of my marriage problems vanished.  There was no one to fuss at, negotiate with, or play possum at bedtime (you know, when you pretend you’re asleep to bypass sex).

 

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