Excellent

Tribulations of a fastidious mother and wife.

I Hate A Messy Mirror

by LisaMay

In the morning,  while I’m yawning, in the bathroom I go, to get on with the show. In the mirror I do stare – try to comb my shaggy hair. Then I see what I just hate, (and you’ll probably relate). Why must it be my fate to arrive when it’s too late? There, to the right, is such a yucky sight! There’s more mess to the left – it leaves me quite bereft and my patience it does test. My son was here before and when he shut the door (oh, how I do abhor), squeezed from his fingertips is a trail of slimy zits! He likes to pop them, squish! But my problem is this: He doesn’t recognise his actions scandalise my sense of decorum in this private forum. He’s got pimples in his dimples; he’s the apple of my eye, but it makes me want to cry, for his acne is not dry. Now I must apologise, for I’ve been telling lies. My son is NOT to blame – he wants to clear his name. This time it’s not HIS crime. The mess wasn’t made by him; ’twas made by my hubby, Jim, who brushed his teeth and splattered toothpaste like nothing mattered. Then he just walked away; no wonder I’ve turned grey. The mirror does not lie – my men just do not try to clean up their acts.  These are the sad facts.