I get home from the gym eager to jump in the shower. I'm absolutely freezing from sweating it out on the treadmill and walking out into the cold Indiana air. I only want to submerge myself under hot water sooner than later. I run up the stairs faster than any effort I put into the treadmill only to come to a screeching halt. "Um, dear daughter, why are you in MY bathroom?"
She proceeds to explain that the lighting in my bathroom is brighter, therefore more suitable for makeup application. What's the big deal, you ask? Where do I start? She applies makeup as if she's Picasso putting the last touches on a work of art. It's a loooong, sloooooow, tedious process. Of course, she tells me I wouldn't be interested in taking a shower quite yet, anyway. She lets me know she had to shave, therefore she's pretty positive her shower was long enough to reduce our hot water to zero. Really? What were you shaving? A woolly mammoth?
So, I plant myself on my bed while of course still in freezing mode, impatiently waiting to get into MY bathroom. I do have to say I learned something new while waiting it out. Dear daughter and dear husband were conversing about who knows what, as I was truly not paying attention to their conversation when I hear dear husband mention "getting bit", and dear daughter then mentions "only 6 days". My interest only peaked because for whatever reason, I have seen both of these terms on my Facebook page numerous times, mostly from females without any explanation. Ok, what are you two talking about. They both blurt out "Twilight". Are you serious? People are counting down the days? I still don't comprehend the vampire rage? Are there any sane women still out there not obsessed with blood sucking vampires and werewolves?
While dear daughter and dear husband are chatting, dear daughter asks if I have any eyeliner. Is there nothing sacred? First my bathroom, now my eyeliner. Of course, being the absolute best mother ever, I tell her yes, but just make sure it makes its way back to where it came from.
Yeaaa, dear daughter is now done with her masterpiece and vacates MY bathroom. I warn dear husband that dear daughter is leaving, that his car is in the driveway and she will be backing my mini-van out of the garage. Keep in mind, dear daughter has managed to total 2 vehicles in less than a year, back into a friend's mailbox and in another incident, back into her cousin's car. Knowing that dear husband values his dear car as much as I do my infinite supply of Diet Dr. Pepper, I felt that this piece of info was imperative to maintain a continuous, loving, amicable father/daughter relationship. He immediately runs outside faster than any effort he put into the gym treadmill, to quickly move his car to safety.
Finally, I get to take a shower in MY bathroom. Because I do not want to be the woolly mammoth she must have shaved, I reached for my razor. Dear daughter has struck again. My overpriced four blade razor is gone, not present, missing, kidnapped. Of course, since I literally screamed in disgust, my husband comes running to confirm my impending death.
Twenty minutes prior to prior to dear daughter's curfew, she calls. Since her incoming ring tone is specifically hers, my immediate thought is oh joy, my van is the most recent victim of dear daughter's creative driving skills. Thankfully, no, that isn't the scenario; this time.
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