Female, speaking to male(s) —

"How hard is it, really, to:

Put your dishes in the sink?

Pick your pants up off the floor?

Fold said pants and put them back in the drawer that is two inches away from where they were on the floor?

Lower the toilet seat?

Not dribble on the toilet seat?

Flush?

Replace the toilet paper roll instead of leaving the last one and a half sheets that are clinging to the cardboard? Oh, and that has a piece of gum stuck to it?

And speaking of gum, how hard is it to not stick the piece of gum to any surface that is within your arm’s reach? No gum, please, on anything other than a scrap of paper or the wrapper it came in.

(That particular instruction was adhered to, at last, when I saw on top of the garbage bin, a package of Big League Chew dotted with ABC’s. Looked like the package was starting to sprout like a potato.)

Make your bed?

Wipe up that spill?

Pick up the trash around the bin that you don’t make with your hook-shot?

Take your stuff to the washing machine, put in soap, add clothes, and hit a button?

Take your stuff out of the washing machine, put it in the dryer, add a sheet, and hit a button?

Get yourself a bowl of ice cream?

Wash an apple?

Peel a banana?

Slice an orange? (Apparently I do the orange slicing and peel removal better than anyone on earth)

Make a sandwich? (Peanut butter one side, jelly on the other, slap two slices together, sandwich!)

Put your eyeglasses where you can find them? (All 14 pairs of them, including two prescription pair.)

Wrap up leftovers and not just stick the pan in the refrigerator?

Hang up a damp towel?

Open a window?

Plug in a vacuum?

Wipe your feet?

Turn off the light?

Open the door?

Wear a seat belt?

Lower the volume on the television?

Change the channel?

Take the garbage out?

Turn the hose on?

Turn the hose off?

Put the cap back on the toothpaste?

Take a dishrag and wipe those bread crumbs up from that sandwich you just made?

Put the ice cream back?

Not wake me when you hear me snoring? To ask if the car is locked? At two in the  morning?

Not use my plates to feed the local strays? (Trust me, those plates do not come back into my house.)

Take the clothes that were thrown out the back door into the laundry room ... that’s outside in the garage?  

Not use my tablecloth to blow your nose?

Not use a sock from the laundry to blow your nose?

Not eat or drink in my vehicle? (Seriously. major pet peeve. Water is allowed. Not much else.)

Tell your friends to pick up their candy wrappers?

Tell your friends where the recycle box is for soda cans? (FYI, it’s right next to the soda cans...)

Hang up your shirt?

Hang up your jacket?

Hang up your hat? (If they would just do it, we wouldn’t be on a hat hunt every time they want to go out the door.)

Let me watch ‘Judge Judy’ without interruption?

Not complain about the dinner I just spent an hour or more creating? Next time it will be Spaghetti-O’s!

Not want to kick them both in the arse sometimes?

For me to think these things and not every say them? Nearly impossible."

Now that I have — and I was told it would happen eventually — become my mother — all I have to do is stand with arms akimbo and glare. 

When I channel that shrill "You kids make me crazy!" voice she used to use, that’s when I know I’ll see some action.

Hmmm ... if I just had a wooden spoon.....