Everywhere I go in this house, I find guitar picks. 

On the kitchen table, kitchen counters, kitchen floors.

On the dryer, in the lint trap, on the basement floor.

This used to irritate me. I’d think, Why can’t he just keep them all in one place? When is he going to be more responsible with his picks? {frustrated sigh} {musicians}

Then one day I noticed something …

Everywhere I go in this house, I find bobby pins. 

Wedged in the carpet, caught under pillows, slipped under shelves.

On the dryer, in the lint trap, on the basement floor.

Because the bobby pins are mine.

The guitar picks are his.

Why is it that we (and by “we” I mean wives) see only the things our husbands do and not the things that we do? (by “things” I mean potentially irritating things).

I’m not better than he; and he is no better than I. We each have our oddities; we each have our strengths. We choose to do this life together and therefore …