While my wife does not mind my interest in firearms, she has little herself. And, fortunately for me, one gun looks about the same as another to her. Whenever she asks how many guns I actually own, I mumble something, then make a comment like "I see you're wearing your fat pants again" which changes the subject fast. The next few minutes might not be the most pleasant, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made.
Because like my father, and his father before him, I sometimes sneak guns into the house without my spouses's knowledge. When asked about a particular gun, I've always had it "a while", even if I just bought it that morning.
But my wife thinks that you should have only as many guns as you need, while we all know it the correct standard is not need, but want.
Oh sure. She suspects. She more than suspects -- she knows. But she pretends not to, rather than face the truth . . . that she is married to a . . . gunbug. Someone who, no matter how hard they fight against temptation, will surrender to the siren song of blued steel and hardwood. So she pretends not to notice when I "casually" stroll in the door, with one hand unobtrusively clutching something hidden under my jacket and immediatly head to the basement.
Common' -- fess up here. Who else is guilty?