The sin of driving Herb’s truck

    Greetings from the Ridge.
    I’ve often pondered over the concept of unforgivable sin. This week I found out. I drove Herb’s truck.
    The closest thing my husband has to a man cave is his little hobbit hole he calls his truck. The yard will need mowing, the sink can be spouting uncontrollably, and his wife may be dangling from a ladder crying for help, but if Herb’s truck needs polishing then the yard, sink, and bride can just hang on until his finishes his masterpiece. At least I can say that in all our years of marriage his only sign of unfaithfulness is when he eyes his next pickup.

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