While my bestest bud, Tiffany and I were downstairs engaging in the delights of "Smallville" and multiple yummy-nummy James Marsters' Harry retreated (as men often do when too much estrogen presents itself) to the bedroom.
I figured he was napping or watching sportscenter, but as I entered the bedroom, flinging open the door with a flourish in order to have a clear path to which I may launch myself, flying squirrel-like, towards his sleeping form, I stopped dead in my tracks.
He was reading.
And it wasn't Playboy, or Toyfare, or even Corvette Weekly - it was a hardback book. Clive Cussler. No pictures.
I'm still in shock.
He's even borrowed my "Iddy Biddy Booklight."
If this is a case of the Invasion of the Body Snatchers - I'm not sure I mind all that much...
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