There are few divorcable offenses in my house...not making the coffee is NUMERO UNO. There is also bitching about anything I cook, clean, or otherwise have a hand in. Such as the miracle of squeezing out the two nose pickin', mouth breathers. I mean, ther are other far more obvious offenses, but...been there done that got the emotional and physical baggage and scars that like to rip open and gush bloody infection over my day at the most inopportune times. It's fucking awesome when that happens. Like ripping my heart out with a rusty spork all by myself and then holding it up in the air for all to see before I hacky sack it into the fireplace kind of awesome. Yeah it rocks. ANYWAY... hiding behind or in shit and jumping out at me is one. I swear he is so fucking lucky that my ass doesn't walk around with a knife because I would have stabbed him like a bajillion times. Fucker. And please. PLEASE. Do NOT come take a shit while I am trapped in the shower. Not funny. Not funny at all. And NO I do NOT want to have a conversation with you while you are doing it. Something about the fact that my nice peppermint or lavendar shower now smells like someone shit in the candy/flower store kinda makes me lose words. My kids have picked up this unfortunate habit as well. I may need to get shock collars and a perimeter thingy so they can't get anywhere near the bathroom while I am in there! I know I should lock the door, but don't. We only have the one and I hae a fear of them not being able to go when they REALLY need to and then having to take them to the hospital mfor Coke can sized fecal impaction. Or I would have to kill them for pissing themselves. Either way it's not pretty. Scott is pretty great. He really is. He lets me sleep in on the weekends. He takes the kids on his famous death march/bike rides. He bought me a $33 Cinderella Punpkin, y'all! But DAMN.IT. When he screws up he really goes for gold. FUCKER.