Caution: Do Not Enter

It occurred to me that in the "about" area of my blog, I claimed that I write about stuff like why I won't use the guest bathroom in my house, weird things I've had to pull out of my dog's butt, and my unabashed love for  Conway Twitty.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I haven't actually written about any of that. And I know there's probably a good percentage of you sweeping the backside of your hand across your forehead, sighing in relief because, I mean, good God, who wants to read about that?

Well, I do. And to prove that I'm not some sort of fraud or hypocrite or liar, I'm going to dive right in and explain to you, today, just exactly why I won't use the guest bathroom in my house.

Because boys use it.

Not just any boys -- adolescent boys. Teenage boys. The kind of boys whose bodies are still changing, and whose minds, when it relates to bathroom-type behavior, haven't quite evolved at the same maturation rate. Which is to say, the grossest kind of boys.

I am the sole female in my household, which is usually comprised of three people but can swell to five during the summer. Three of these summer time male creatures are under the age of 17. Do you see where I'm going with this? Now, I'm not so ignorant as to expect children to be perfectly clean at all times. I also fully realize that the body's bathroom functions are necessary, and that the changes taking place in a young boy's body at that stage of life are natural and healthy. But dang if it isn't disgusting.

Take, for instance, the trash can in Nate's bathroom. I wasn't aware that the home goods section of Kohl's department store sold such high-tech devices but it appears that I walked out of there with a wastebasket equipped with its own force field. How else can I explain the scraps of tissue, toilet paper, floss and various other things that come to rest not inside the can, but on the floor around it?

In fact, I'm really beginning to wonder if that bathroom is really a bathroom at all. It's more like a chemical experiment. Our towel bars seem to have been designed with a self-lubricating device that activates any time it detects the nearness of cotton, because all the towels end up on the floor beneath the bars. Oxygen causes toothpaste to turn to stone after being mixed with air and a ceramic sink. There must also be some sort of additive in the wall paint that causes the entire room to act like a magnet, for just last week I discovered seven sticks of Axe deodorant (plus one spray can). Did you get that, guys? Seven. Sticks. Of. Deodorant.

And let's not talk about the reactions that occur as a result of soap scum, pee splashes, and inexperienced facial shaving.

When the boys first began visiting in the summer four years ago, I explained to Steve that I was happy to cook, chauffeur, entertain and help keep common areas clean, but oversight of the kids' bathroom was his responsibility. It's not often that I play the stepmom card, but the kids were in the throes of puberty, I didn't give birth to them, and I was not cleaning up their bathroom messes. It's a policy I maintain to this day, though I am willing to make exceptions for the seven-year-old. Nate, as he likes to remind us, is teetering on the edge of manhood which I think is the perfect time to learn how to scrub toilets, wipe sinks and de-scum the tub. I tell him chicks dig a man who cleans, and I never hesitate to tell him again that one of the things that first attracted me to his father was his immaculate apartment. What? Some girls like to be wooed with roses, I prefer floor tile that sparkles. I am, after all, the daughter of Hillbilly Heloise.

As with all things I know it could be worse, and honestly these three boys who came into my life almost