Darth Grubby Strikes Back

I just channeled my teenaged son.

Even though he currently lays innocently sleeping in his bed (well, perhaps not innocently, but I've heard enough about them to know that I don't want to peek into his dreams, so let's say 'innocent until proven guilty', shall we?), his pernicious influence still percolates subtly throughout the house, perhaps throughout the known universe.

I know this because I just started up the water in the tub in the (probably vain) hope that it would eventually warm up to the point where my scalp won't actually freeze solid on contact, and as I turned on the spigot I had the clear thought:

"AGAIN??! But I just washed my hair three days ago..."

(Hey, I've had the flu, give me a break)

That clearly wasn't MY thought running through my head. As my son will no doubt be happy to tell anyone foolish enough to ask, as recently as Thursday I was a member of the Nagging Mother's Hygiene Police in good enough standing to feel compelled to yell orders from my death bed regarding sufficient Shampoo Rinsage and the proper use of a Loofah Mitt.

There's too much testosterone around here. Clearly The Cat isn't a sufficiently balancing female influence. Perhaps we shouldn't have had her spayed?

I need a wife.