I know. Short title. Where's the sarcastic OR? Where's the pithy add-ons? What's wrong with Fat Woman?
I will tell you.
Reference the recent blog, "S**T People Ought to Know OR Oops, She's Sharing Again and Not in a Good Way."
With the systematic invasion of the 'rent in law, came the titillating return of Pain in the Ass Man. For those of you who are new to this blog, I will explain that Pain in the Ass Man is HIM. HIM is the man to whom I've been married for 28 years. HIM is also the unfortunate target of many a humorous blog. HIM's alter ego is Pain the Ass Man. Pain in the Ass Man is a local superhero with many powers. Not the least of these super powers is the ability to piss me off in three words or less. (Sometimes it doesn't even take actual words.) (As an example here is a recent answer to a question from me: "I don't know." Voila. My brain short circuited in three words or less. It helps to have the stupid expression shown with the words slurred together as HIM could not possibly be bothered to answer legibly or intelligibly.)
Ta-dah! Pain in the Ass Man RIDES AGAIN!
Fat Woman usually responds to the "look" thusly.
Back story all told, Pain in the Ass was mysteriously renewed when there was a sudden onslaught of the in law. The in law may also be viewed as Pain in the Ass Man's infrequent sidekick, Grouchy Old Man Boy. Grouchy Old Man Boy also has super powers such as the ability to ignore anything out of Fat Woman's mouth or the equally mysterious power of If-I-Don't-Look-At-You-Then-I-Don't-Have-To-Respond-To-You. (My personal favorite is the I-Refuse-To-Stay-In-The Same-Room-As-You ability that enables Grouchy Old Man Boy to dematerialize from any area which Fat Woman is present and transmogrify into any area in which Fat Woman is absent.)
(Some of you may be wondering how I managed to get this blog past my husbandly censor. Well, let's just say HIM may not have been consulted in the writing of this blog.)
During the recent super hero reunion of the crabby ones, HIM strangely relocated all of his bathroom gear into my bathroom. This is otherwise known as Fat Woman's fortress of solitude. (Not that calling it that stops our daughter from banging on the door at inopportune times.)
I don't know why HIM had to move his stuff to my bathroom. Possibly it's the OCD-ity-ness in HIM that cannot allow him to share his bathroom with a visitor. But HIM had to invade my personal space with his manly he-items strewn all over my counter. (I remember when we were looking at houses to buy and I thought having a bathroom with each bedroom was excessive. Hahaha. Not anymore. There are three of us in this house and believe me, I think we should each have our own personal teetee room and a fourth one for visitors. I don't care if I have to clean four bathrooms. It would be worth it. Totally.)
Still with me? I'll summarize in case I wandered too far. The in law came. Pain in the Ass Man returned. Pain in the Ass Man violated my inner sanctum. (Okay, I know what you're thinking and you've got a very dirty mind.) Fat Woman became cranky. Combine that with a special feminine time of the month and you've got the recipe for total nuclear Armageddon. HIM should have presented me with a one-way ticket to the tropical island of my choice and a box of chocolates.
Instead he started up with the stupid roll of toilet paper. (Bet you didn't think you could get divorced over toilet paper.) (Somewhere, someone got divorced over a roll of toilet paper. I'm going to google it and see.)
I believe I've already mentioned HIM's preference for having the paper go over the top of the roll whilst hanging on the holder. Well, once HIM invaded my bathroom, HIM simply took the roll off the holder in a blatant attempt to avoid the over or under theorem. Why? It's a small bathroom and HIM says, "I can't reach the holder when it's right there 2 inches away from my elbow." (Craftily, HIM avoided the over or under bomb by utilizing the whole removal of the TP method.)
Okay, nothing to explode about, right? But then HIM takes the toilet paper when HIM's done and puts it on the back of the toilet's tank lid instead of back on the holder. The next person in the bathroom may or may not see the toilet paper out of reach and sets about her bathroomly business before realizing there is NO LONGER a roll of toilet paper on the holder. The toilet paper is NO LONGER within reach of anyone except a card carrying member of Cirque du Soleil. (The contortionist who literally CAN kiss their own tushies.)
HIM's response to my dilemma of not being able to bend backwards at a 90 degree angle: "You should have looked where the toilet paper was before you sat down."
That was the point of self immolation. "You should have looked where the toilet paper was before you sat down." That statement. That very statement of doom. Now I'm the first to admit that statement was way more than three words, but it had the same impact. You see, according to HIM, it was my own fault I couldn't reach the TP because I hadn't...looked...first.
"I had the TP on the holder," I said.
"I can't reach it there," HIM whined.
"I know a place where you can reach it," I replied, thinking of a very specific locale upon HIM's anatomy.
Realizing that HIM was damned, HIM fled, screaming over his shoulder, "I'll NEVER touch your TP again!" (Not really, but it really flows well in my imagination.)
Moral of the story: Don't mess with a woman's toilet paper.