Hair Balls

I live with three women. I also clean the bathrooms and mop the floors. These two seemingly unrelated facts collided in spectacular fashion Sunday when I went to scrub the kitchen floor. I hadn’t even started when I noticed a massive wad of hair sticking to the side of the mop. An unfortunate residue from last week’s cleaning session. After I quenched a gag, I carefully removed the follicles by the narrowest of fingertips and made my way to Wifezilla.

“You see this?” I said accusingly. “You women shed like wookies and yet I’m the one who cleans it up! This is an outrage! I demand a reallocation of jobs!”

Wifezilla stopped cleaning the kitchen for a moment to glance at the hairy evidence. She smiled at me knowingly, like a lion with a mouthful of zebra. “Listen, when you have to start scraping off the skid marks in the girls' underwear, than you’ll have something to complain about.” She went back to the grizzly work of gutting and devouring her zebra.

I was left speechless. Defeated. I really hate it when I lose these battles.