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I think Michael may be coming down with Parkinson’s, or something.  The last three mornings, I have walked into the bathroom to find urine pooling in the grout joints of the tile around the toilet.  I have screamed and hollered over the past 3 years for him to steer that thing so that it piddled INTO the bowl—not scratch and wave it around like he’s a firemen who can’t decide which blaze to put out.  I’ve made him clean up his own mess at times, too.  This is why I think he must be in the early stages of horrible disease that causes him to shake or convulse uncontrollably.  Surely he wouldn’t be so careless what with the wrath I have inflicted on him repeatedly in the years since his potty training.  Now, there are times when he sits down to do both parts of his business, and he doesn’t tuck his “manhood” down far enough, and it squirts out between the seat and the toilet all over his jammies.  This I sort of get—although it still irritates the bejesus out of me.  Oh pretty New Zealand wool rug, I hardly knew ye before you got the patina of little boy nastiness ground into you.

So the last three mornings, I have awakened to the protesting of my own full bladder, gone to the hall bath, saw the puddle of urine that didn’t make it into the commode, screamed angry demonstrations into the ethers hoping they travel to where Mikey is in the house, closed the door, and gone off to the other (marginally cleaner) bathroom to do my business.

I know urine is sterile—maybe it should be bottled and used as a bathroom cleaner.  Did I just think that out loud?  COPYRIGHT!!!  Don’t you dare steal my idea!  Gotta go eat breakfast…think I’ll set up around the base of the toilet since that is the most sterile, clean surface in the house.

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