For a while in college I lived in a rooming house. We all shared the bathrooms and kitchen (and therefore the cleaning lady too) and each had their own room complete with a double security lock on the door. An unspoken agreement existed between myself and the otherwise male household: that the bathroom was used only for ‘quick’ stops and the closet-like toilet was for longer contemplation. This kept things in balance and allowed for bursts of creative inspiration like one roommate’s idea of pinning the daily sports section to the inside of the toilet door for easy hands-free reading. 98% percent of the household was pleased and the rest quickly learned to live with it.
These days I don’t blink an eye on the – in my experience – predominantly male need for literary inspiration in the “Oval Office”. I don’t care if the magazines pile up in the bathroom, as long as he doesn’t complain about the scented candle and shampoo that smells like fruits of the forest. Things are in balance. Or almost.
Magazines are fine, catalogs and books too. But walking in this morning to see a cookbook lying on the washing machine, still open to the dish he suggested for dinner tonight, was just a bit too much.
It is an abomination to consider the next meal while getting rid of the last one.