To my dearest hubby ...

Dear Paul,

I'm sorry I blamed you this morning for leaving the upstairs toilet running.

In my defense, how was I supposed to know that one of our friends — desperately in need of a place to stay since his wife kicked him out for good on his birthday — had snuck into the house at 3:30 a.m. and was asleep upstairs?

I suppose I would've figured it out for myself had I not stepped over his note scrawled on a paper towel, laying on the floor outside our bedroom door.

You know how much I like routine, how much safer I feel when I'm in control of the situation. And I think the universe tosses curveballs my way once in a while as a big ten-four that I can't be such an uptight, anal-retentive, Type A chick all the time.

Also, I think the universe is sending you a message that it's time to get the damn toilet fixed. But that's just my take on things.

With all my love,
Your dear wifey

P.S. What's with the pic? Can't you tell that it's Peep Paul being annoyed by back-seat driver Peep Kate because she doesn't recognize his obvious need for Peep speed?