Be honest. Aren’t there things you wait to do until your significant other leaves the house? Re-arrange the dishwasher so that the plates face the right way? Watch Real Housewives of New York? Feed the dog pieces of bacon because he loves them so much? As much as I love being with my hubby, and I really don’t like it when he has to be somewhere else, there are certain things that just don’t happen when he’s here. Granted, he’s pretty much the most tolerant person ever, so there aren’t many.
However, there is just this one little thing that he won’t have in his presence. Eggs for dinner. No poached with toast, no scrambled with sausage, no fried on top of anything. No. Eggs. For. Dinner. Which is fine, I get it, but we have this one little problem: I would put an egg on top of anything and call it a meal. I haven’t always been this way, and I couldn’t tell you when it started. Maybe college? Maybe when I lived on my own after college? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that now I’m addicted and I can’t stop. I try to rein it in most of the time, but when the cat’s away the mice will play… with eggs.