Thank You, President Bush

I have recently come to grips with the fact that I no longer own my bathrooms. Yes, bathrooms. I have plural. I own neither. And it is all on account of the fact that I have girls.

In my opinion the bathroom, being the smallest room in the house, isn't the logical choice for a lengthy stay. But, I stand corrected. My girls go into the bathroom and conquer it. They use it for showers and make up, which is fairly expected. But then they branch out into new areas of bathroom activity. They blast music from their iPods and write song lyrics on the mirror with markers. They lay across the counter with their head dangling above a sink filled with steamy water for a self administered "Facial." They sing like they are rock stars. Sometimes both at the same time - different songs, different bathrooms. During those episodes, the rest of us are subjected to a conflicting concert nobody should have to endure.

Just to balance things out, though, I have a couple of boys. They live according to a strict code in which the bathroom serves only one purpose - bragging. Since I am the kind of person who finds the bragging disgusting instead of  impressive, they whisper their brags to each other. One will go in, come out later, run to his brother, and whisper something. Then they both go running back in, erupt in violent laughter, flush, and return to us looking highly pleased.

Don't ask, don't tell.