Oh, how my husband is secretly trying to kill me, let me count the ways. Or maybe we should skip to the chase and talk about the irony of ass towels for common use. My husband is fastidious enough to wash the kids' bums when they poop - wipes aren't good enough for their lil tushes - yet fails to clue in that ass towels must be demoted from rack to hamper immediately. Or maybe he does know that, and it's all part of his evil plan to annihilate Boss #1 (that's me).
Not surprisingly, I haven't been well since the kids came on scene. For the first time in my life, I've been plagued with gut-wrenching stomach bug after stomach bug (and those bitches don't even give me mercy weight loss). At first, I blamed exhaustion and the resulting lowered immunity. It wasn't until I saw K leave a bio-hazardous bum rag on my towel rack that I put one and one together and went ape-shit crazy (remember, I am a major germ-phobe). Here is the plan I put in motion to foil Boss #2's plan (that's K if you're getting confused):
- Invoke all the inner demons for Bitch-Fest 2011. Ooh, did I ever let him have it! You wouldn't hear that many cuss words in one evening from an entire shipload of sailors!
- Put a moratorium on ass towels on the towel rack. How did I enforce it? By threatening a Bitch-Fest re-run.
- Celebrate the inauguration of Project Healthy House with copius amounts of alcohol. I hear it kills germs, no?
- Issue an apology to any houseguests that may have inadvertently become infected with something nasty. (Fine print: My apology does not equal acceptance of blame, so don't even think about suing me for your discomforts!)
If I croak before I wake - from E.Coli or staph poisoning, no doubt - you'll let the authorities know what happened, won't ya?