Ugh. Me dad. Me dad with beard stubble. Me dad wondering if that stink is me. Ugh.
I’m the master of my house. The head cheese. Da king. In every room except for one.
I have a sixteen year old daughter. Oh, she doesn’t pay the mortgage, but she sure thinks she owns the bathroom.
Our house has one full bath upstairs and a powder room (i.e. toilet and sink in a room the size of a phone booth) downstairs. Somehow my daughter manages to occupy both simultaneously. For at least an hour.
She has the room wired. I swear she does. I tiptoe down the hall in the morning, doing my best to make it into the bathroom undetected. If I can JUST GET INTO THE SHOWER, then I’m safe. But I never make it. My hand is inches aware from the shower faucet handle and…
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
“DAD, GET OUT. I NEED THE SHOWER NOW!!!!!!”
My defense is the only thing I can think of. I jump in the shower and yell “Give me two minutes!”. I skip shaving. I skip any true bathing. I get damp, hope the soap gets to the right places, and get out as fast as possible. If I don’t rush, then both women in my house gang up on me. Oftentimes, the thirteen year old boy joins in outside the door just for the fun of it.
Really the only time I can claim ownership of either bath is when the throne has been occupied and the aroma is overwhelming. I often wonder if dads possess powerful poop smells as a means of at least getting some control over the facilities. I do my best. The green fog creeping under the bathroom door fends off an attacking daughter for at least five minutes.
When summer comes, I am going to resort to using the garden house in the backyard. The neighbors are going to love me.