Sometimes Mrs. Poopmonster swore she could just smother him in his sleep and no one would ever have to know. These nights when he snored to beat the band, it was all she could do from holding a pillow over his head. She could blame his mysterious demise on an unfortunate combination of alcohol and aspirin, or she could say that she had always known he had a terminal case of sleep apnea. Anything to stop the damn snoring. Kicking him didn’t work. Trying to roll him over didn’t work. Slapping him on the back didn’t work. Mrs. Poopmonster was beginning to understand where homicidal rage came from.
The Little Things That Test A Marriage28 07 2010