O.K., I know I’m the object of considerable envy because I live with Mr. Perfect. Mr. Perfect makes the bed and cooks the meals and washes the dishes and cleans the house. O.K., I admit it. He’s perfect. But how would you like it if you were imperfect and living with Mr. Perfect? Leave your clothes heaped up on the dining room chair, and Mr. Perfect wordlessly dumps them on your desk chair. O.K., it’s so he has room to sit in the chair to eat the dinner (that he cooked). But still. O.K., so suppose you just spent $20 on underwear and another $20 on a yoga book and maybe another $20 on some stupid thing you saw at a street fair, and you come home and Mr. Perfect confides that he’d really like to buy a book written by a friend of his about other friends of his but it costs $16.60 so he’s thinking he’ll wait to see if the price drops. WTF! O.K., so you worked a whole hour on your taxes so you could send your list of expenses to your tax preparer, and you felt very pleased with yourself because you did it early and you’re getting a big fat refund. Then Mr. Perfect spends the next month doing four sets of taxes (himself) for his sister who died, his mother who’s demented, our daughter who’s in Denmark, and himself. It’s just hell living with Mr. Perfect!