There is truth in journalism. I was pissed. But hear me out. I'm actually a pretty cool wife. I don't get upset about boys nights or excessive bourbon -- excuse me, buh-buhn -- drinking or bachelor parties and I (almost) never make my husband go shopping with me. (Frankly, that's because he's terrible to shop with. He doesn't know where to stand and he hovers. Recently, when I wanted to go shopping on my birthday, we had to establish just exactly how far away from me was an appropriate distance. We settled on "an arms-length," and he then he proceeded to spend the entire hour we were in J. Crew walking around with his arm straight.) And OK, one time I did make him go see Mamma Mia! with me. But it was only because I didn't want to waste our tickets. And secretly, I think he might have enjoyed it.

But the one thing that I get ticked about, like really ticked, is T-shirts. The boy has thousands. Literally thousands. There are the three main (and towering) "regular rotation" piles in our closet. Then there is the overstuffed storage bag full of them under our bed. There is a bin in the guest closet. There are three large plastic bins of them in our garage. Plus a garbage bag full of some his mother brought over recently. Plus how ever many plastic bins of his old T-shirts she has stashed at her house. I have T-shirts coming out my ears.

He buys them from absolutely everywhere he goes. And he goes a lot of places. Say, for example, that he has to go to the University of Texas on assignment. He doesn't just return home with a Longhorns T-shirt. He returns home with a Longhorns T-shirt and hat and gym shorts and fleece, and a shirt from Matt's El Rancho. And from the Four Seasons Austin. And from some new Indian place he tried. Maybe he really likes a place and so he buys multiple T-shirts for his friends. But they never get mailed.

Every time he goes anywhere, we have the same conversation.

Me: "Please don't buy any more T-shirts. You have too many T-shirts, OK? Promise?"

Him: "Promise."

And then he returns home with, like, 30.

One time I said something like, "Please don't buy [yourself] any more T-shirts." And he didn't. But he did start buying them for me.

Now I have too many T-shirts.

And this morning, I was dressing in sort of a haze, so I just grabbed whatever I saw first. And no joke, it was a Masters pullover.

Ugh.