Vegas in reverse

I think the popular quip “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” applies here. But at my house, it also applies in reverse.

I really have no desire to know how often my wife let her hair down while on her annual girls trip to the beach anymore than she needs to know what the kids and I were up to while she was away.

Actually, I already know a little of what went on at the beach through the pictures my wife and her friends posted on their Facebook profiles. While I’m pretty sure they show only what they are willing to acknowledge, no such evidence exists at all of what happened here at home. And I want to keep it that way.

My wife doesn’t need to know that I put my own twist on Bill Cosby’s advice about breakfast. Instead of chocolate cake (I didn’t have any readily at hand), I started our kids day one morning with the leftover chocolate pudding pie we had in the refrigerator.

She also doesn’t need to know how often we hit the drive-thrus around town or that just about the only thing green we consumed the whole time she was away came on top of a pizza. (I made the kids get green peppers as a topping one night).

But keeping such damaging information quiet can be a little tricky, especially if you are in the habit of using a debit card to pay for everything. They leave a paper trail in the form of bank statements that detail every purchase you make. That’s why I headed to the ATM (remember those?) and used cash, instead.

My wife also doesn’t need to know about the stomach ache our son woke up with the other day. I figured something was wrong when he didn’t touch the leftover pizza I put in front of him for breakfast. I could hear his stomach rumbling clear across the room. It must have been something he ate when I wasn’t looking.

Thankfully, his discomfort didn’t last long. He recovered in time to join us at a friend’s house for a gathering of guys whose wives abandoned them to join mine at the beach. We had hamburgers and jalapeno poppers for dinner (the poppers were the only other thing green we ate).

What I did or did not feed the kids isn’t the only transgression my wife doesn’t need to know about.

My daughter emerged from her room one morning complaining that she didn’t have any clean jeans to wear to school. I told her the pair she held in her hands didn’t smell that bad.

Besides,” I said, “your brother and I don’t have any clean jeans, either.”

She just narrowed her eyes and gave me that slow, “who are you?” head shake that only skeptical pre-teen girls seem capable of delivering.

The incident forced me to do laundry earlier than I had planned.

So far, I haven’t had to fess up to anything, although it took a bribe or two to buy the kid’s silence.

But since the house got put back together before my wife got home earlier this week and there were no visible signs suggesting a visit to the emergency room, no questions have been asked … by either of us.


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