Northern Intelligence

The War at Home

I am under attack. And to make matters worse, the invading army is a member of my own household.

Maybe I should back up.

Last winter, my parents came to visit for the holidays. In a rare occurrence of consideration for others, I suggested that my husband, to avoid disturbing our guests with late night bathroom odysseys, share the two-piece en-suite bathroom that I had currently laid claim to. Except for showers, we would surrender the bigger bathroom to my parents.

I love my en-suite bathroom. The moment we discovered the wee little washroom connected to the master bedroom, I shouted, “Dibbs!” and it’s been my own little white, red and grey “Fortress of Solitude”. I had no idea what I had been missing the last five years, having to share a bathroom with a hairy, sweaty male. No longer would I have to hear anyone complain about my ever-expanding makeup collection or many bottles of moisturizer. No one would bang on the door, interrupting my carefully orchestrated morning grooming routine. And I could finally wax my eyebrows in peace, without SOMEONE asking me every two minutes, “Geez, doesn’t that hurt?” (Yes, it does hurt, and being pestered doesn’t make the process any more enjoyable.)

Makeup is sorted by brand name and stored in separate bags. Hairstyling products are neatly arranged in order of how often I use them. Blow-dryers, curling wands, and Bump-its (which are surely the work of a genius) are all stored away, awaiting their next use. Because my husband is sensitive to perfume, I only wear two scents that don’t bother him: J’adore by Dior and Midnight Rose by Lancôme. The result is that my bathroom has a wonderfully light floral scent. And the best part is that every color in my bathroom perfectly matches my greatest junkshop find: an original oil-painting of a basket overflowing with pink-and-red wild roses.

Basically, it is a GIRL’S bathroom.

Now, a hairy, sweatier male occupant of this house – who shall remain nameless – is trying to force me out.

Ever since my parents visited, I have noticed little signs of an intruder. A fresh toilet paper roll that has not been placed on the holder LIKE IT SHOULD BE. The sudden appearance of a razor that is not pink or surrounded by a moisturizing band. And the most telling clue: a second toothbrush.

I understand the temptation. It’s cute, it’s clean, and there are pretty pictures on the walls.

But it’s MINE, dagnabit!

I’ve tried to entice him back into his own bathroom. I’ve put out scented candles. I’ve replaced the old, tattered shower curtain with a lovely, new one depicting a calming scene of river rocks. I even found a gorgeous National Geographic print, a close-up shot of frozen leaves (trust me; it sounds weird, but looks amazing) that I hung up, all in an effort to regain my Fortress. But all my efforts have been for naught. Any day now, I am going to morph into George Costanza over this bathroom.

And really, that won’t be good for anyone.

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