As a newlywed, I loved to vacuum. There wasn't much to clean. We had one hand-me-down blue velour couch and matching lazy boys, with stains of mysterious origin. Our small TV was sitting on top of the crates that I used in college to hold my text books, and a small wooden table that his brother used for taxidermy. And despite how often I cleaned it, I could still smell duck blood.
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But, this was our crummy furniture in our crummy apartment, and I liked to fuss over it—dusting and vacuuming at least twice a week. Given our Spartan living arrangements, vacuuming was a chore with few surprises. And yet, once a week, when I vacuumed near the couch, I heard the vacuum rattle like I was sucking up tacks. One day, I bent down and saw the jagged half moons of toenail clippings. Gross.
It wasn't me and I had never seen Dave clip his nails. So, I waited and watched. And it happened. Sunday night, while my husband was watching football I noticed his hand curled around his toes ever so gently removing a toenail.
"Ew!" I yelled, "Just clip them!" My husband looked up blankly. "Sure thing, as soon as you stop forgetting to flush the toilet."
Busted. Six months into our marriage and our dirty little unintentional habits had come to light. He liked to stuff sweaty gym socks under the couch. I never capped the toothpaste. He was a chronic leg jiggler. Me a nail biter.
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And it's not just us. Two years into her marriage, a friend of mine discovered that her husband had been sneaking cheese at midnight. Another friend told me that her husband lies on the floor of the bathroom for five full minutes, while the shower runs, before getting in. Yes, that is precisely five minutes and yes, he does set a timer.
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