Here’s the story of my brother, the shower door, and sherry.
I just can’t stand improperly folded shower doors. I’m sorry, but it’s unacceptable bathroom etiquette. You shut the toilet lid. You clean the sink. You position the soap tub squeezy thing in the correct position at the correct diagonal angle to the right tap. You do not, under any circumstances, tie the chain of either the sink or the bath around the tap. You don’t leave hairballs on the floor. They accumulate until eventually you have a tumbleweed floating around your house that always shows up when you decide to make a rare joke. You don’t mess with the shower settings. They’re properly set for my skin type. And for the love of all that’s holy, what in the name of Zeus are you thinking when you put your toothbrush within the five-inch ‘Red Zone’ perimeter of my toothbrush? Have you any idea how far germs can jump? They’re like jumping beans. In fact, I’m running with the theory that jumping beans are actually a jail for these germs, imprisoned by the mighty Aunty Germ Goddess who punishes improper toothbrush alignment. You know, like that place in Superman. The Fortress of Analtude. Although I imagine Googling that would be a bad idea.
Gah, I can’t help it readers. Those bloody shower doors. They’re not in the correct position! They’re made of plastic, they are. Five separate narrow doors, all hinged. They can fold both ways but there’s only one position that tucks the folded arrangement snugly into its little cubbyhole. And only one that avoids a collision when you enter the bathroom to tinkle. Imagine my horror. First, I bang my head into a five way folded door spread across the entranceway, then I turn around and, with my one good eye, see a horrific sight. Badly folded doors, people! It’s ridiculous! They have a set position! Follow the rules! IT DOESN’T TAKE A BLOODY GENIUS TO WORK IT OUT! THIS DAY CANNOT GET ANY WORSE! OH MY GOD, THE TOILET ROLL IS ON BACK-TO-FRONT! That’s it, I’m writing a strongly worded letter of complaint. Dear brother…
I shan’t harp on about it. But you know what it looks like? Like he got out of the shower and threw the doors toward the wall. Like a teenager removing their underwear, scrunching it up and throwing it at a wall, so he can hurriedly engage in coitus with a girl he thinks is called Susan. Or Josie. Or perhaps Helen. NO! NO, NO, NO! Just, NO! STOP IT! YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HER NAME! And to make matters worse, you’ve just thrown your underwear on the flipping floor! Fold them up and put them in the laundry hamper! What is happening to our country! Is this really the future of humankind? People with no knowledge of underwear or sexual etiquette? THESE PEOPLE WILL BE RUNNING OUR COUNTRY ONE DAY! RUNNING IT! That girl, Susan, Josie, Helen, whatever, probably Charlotte, doesn’t deserve him! She deserves a real man! ONE WHO KNOWS HOW TO DISCARD OF UNDERWEAR PROPERLY!
This is my problem, readers. You have family over for Christmas and they just crap all over the place. Not literally, of course, unless your relative has bowel issues or is a cat. In which case, wow. You’re related to a cat? How did that happen? Is it like that novel where everyone is converted into animals on that island and somehow a cat has swum across a giant ocean and decided to mate with a human? Because wow, what a Christmas that would’ve been. I mean, I don’t know what to make of that. I’m related to a cat. A cat that can swim. And there’s a doctor blatantly flouting conventional medical procedure, we should probably try to do something about that, unless it’s that island from Lost, then we have no hope of finding it. Maybe it’s in a Dali painting. I’m just thinking aloud here. But you know what, despite all of that, bugs me the most about this possible (yet in reality I know it’s obviously not true, *eye dart*) scenario? That cat. It just fouled all over the house. Toilet train the bastard, it’s not that difficult. I mean, I’ve never had a cat, but it can’t be that hard. I had a goldfish and it didn’t listen to a word I said. Except ‘food’, she knew what that meant. And, for some reason, she knew the word ‘socks’. Hmm…
I may need to inform you at this point, readers, there’s a rumour going around that there’s a distinct possibility I may be on my tenth glass of sherry. Just a rumour. I can’t confirm it at all. I always have sherry breath. Sherry, sherry, sherry…
My brother is wonderful. Funny, intelligent – well, yes, somewhat. Funny. Did I mention funny? It’s funny you mention it, because I’m not entirely sure what’s happening right now. It’s his first Christmas with us in a good decade and it’s been brilliant. Charades at Christmas dinner was a particular hoot. I can’t remember the exact details, sadly. My brother did that walking thing with his fingers. “Ah”, said dad. “Walking”. Yup. My brother then pointed to mother. “Ah”, said dad. “Walking with dinosaurs”. Oh my word, my ribs nearly exploded out of my chest. You know when you laugh so hard you can’t breathe? Your sides hurt and you have severe jaw strain? Yeah. I was like that. Except an ambulance nearly had to be called. Oh boy. I forget the actual charade. It went on for some hours.
Poor mother. She’s 63 in January. She’s off to London with father for a weekend to see a show. At least she won’t be in harm’s way, there. The ‘harm’ being the charades incident with father. Oh no, no harm at all. It’s not like the show she’s going to see is three doors down from The Apollo whose ceiling collapsed recently. Or right next door to a recent nightclub shooting. Christmas took her mind off it. It took all our minds off every trouble in the world. Until the charades happened. Which reminded mother she has a weekend alone with father coming up. He, he, he…
It was a fun Christmas, if you ignore my brother’s blatant rule flouting. The git. I won at horseracing. It may have been a game. And those horses may have been dogs. I got some books and some chocolate, which I scoffed down whilst crying at Matt Smith’s departure on Doctor Who. Yeah, that’s right, ladies. I CRY! I’M IN TOUCH WITH MY FEELINGS! Yet you’d rather sleep with some moron who doesn’t even know your name and cannot follow underwear conventions! All the while, I’m sat here in a darkened room, six months from my 24th birthday and STILL A VIRGIN! Where’s the justice! WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME, AUNTY GERM GODDESS! Who, apparently, I’ve just made God. Whoop-de-do. A female God. Anything? No? Oh, great. Nothing, huh? So you’re still going for that pretty boy in the bar? Oh, spiffing. I’ll just sit here in the dark shall I, crying over a TV show moaning about my shower door! Injustice, indeed.
Well, I hope you had a smashing Christmas or Hanukah or whatever it is now, and I hope you have a great new year that brings you lots of joy, happiness, and encounters with pretty boys and girls in bars who can’t discard underwear correctly. I really do. As for me, I’ve had a good 2013 and hope for a good 2014. Thank you for your continued support of all three of my blogs. And, erm, I think that’s it. I’m going to take one last sip of my water before proceeding to fall flat on my face.
I think someone may have spiked my water. I have that sort of family. Most people would call a policeman in this situation. I’m actually grateful for the attention. Sniff. Anywho…
So I’ll see you in 2014. You know, providing the world doesn’t blow up between now and then…
American author, Molly Harper, once said: “You will treat my underwear with the reverence it deserves. Next time, you will stop and appreciate – hell, you’ll marvel at the miracle of my ass clad in silk”.
Peace Out :|:
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