Boys are cute. Boys can be intriguing.
Boys are also stinky.
I live in a household full of boys with only a cat and dog to commiserate with.
Which is fine.
After all, I’ve been in rock bands with boys – stinky, foul mouthed, messy boys – for most of my adult life. I’m not saying I can’t be stinky and foul mouthed with the best of them. But when it comes to a few key things, all bets are off.
A bit of advice: If you’re ever on tour sharing a Motel 6 with guys, make sure at all costs that you stake your claim to the shower first. When you’re in line after the guy whose back hair makes Sasquatch look like he needs a sweater, you’re sunk, Toots. Lucky or not for me, most guys in bands compete to see who can go the longest without showering. My advice and the most sound advice of course, is to get your own room.
My biggest issue, however, is with the commode.
I remember my mother hunkering down with a bucket of industrial strength Mr. Clean, a pair of indelible rubber gloves and a rag, until the bowl gleamed.
I’m sorry. but I can’t get onboard with that level of commitment. I don’t care if it smells like a busload of homeless refugees have been holed up in the Port Authority men’s room for a month – I’m not rolling up my sleeves. I draw the line at the disposable brush and aromatic gel combo that renews my spirit with every flush.
Too bad, since things can get odiferous enough to make the Tidy Bowl Man turn his motor boat around and head for the nearest deserted island.
I don’t have to tell the ladies that the 2 am darkened stupor plunge butt long into the drink is no day in the park. Nor is the offshoot drizzle…the all too familiar empty toilet paper roll.
It can bring a girl to tears.
But it’s my potty and I’ll cry if I want to.
*previously posted at elleroy was here