Matt calls me "The Trash Maker."  And he's right.  It seems as soon as Matt gives me the warning, "The garbage can outside is overflowing, so pleeeeeeeaaaasssseee don't make any more trash," I get the inexplicable urge to edit my wardrobe, clean out the two junk drawers in the kitchen, and empty the waste basket from the bathroom.   I'm not sure, but I think it might have something to do with control.  I mean really, who does he think he is, telling me I can't make trash in my own house?  I'll show him. But that is just me being immature because deep down I know he is right.  I shouldn't cram the garbage can so full that the lid won't close, just like I shouldn't use a metal fork to scramble eggs in our non-stick pan.  But if I listened to his advice, he would win, and I just can't have that.  Our most memorable fights all include my shouting something about him not being my daddy.   What can I say, I don't like being told what to do.  I don't even like suggestions.  I don't even care if the word pleeeeeaaaassseee is used.  And when I feel like I'm being "bossed", teenage rebellion begins pumping through my veins and I get all mouthy and say things like, "Whatever.  You're not my dad," or I question him, "Why are you trying to act like you're my dad?"   I'll admit it, "You're not my daddy" has become my brass knuckles in our marital disputes.  I keep it in my back pocket for easy access.  But Matt has brass knuckles of his own.  He keeps "If it wasn't for me, nothing would get done around here," safely tucked away in his invisible lapel pocket.  So we are even.  We take turns having the upper hand, but we always go to bed holding hands, no brass knuckles, just forgiveness.