Filed under "things that drive me crazy" which is a subsection of "nearly everything" (I use law office sized filing cabinets), I'd like to mention The Bath.
B doesn't shower. I think he thinks he's allergic to them or something because the way he evades the little pull knob that switches the water flow from the faucet to the shower head is probably exactly the way that former president evades broccoli fields. You know, Polk. He (B, not Polk) won't touch the damn thing. He insists on having lengthy (of course they are lengthy) hot baths. Ones that last three quarters of an hour long.
"Like the Romans intended."
I can hear you saying "But what is the big deal?", and I'm ignoring the last part of what you said because I am completely sane thankyouverymuch. The big deal is that, completely on purpose and in direct violation of the My Nerve Act, he only takes them at midnight. AT MIDNIGHT. Then, every single fucking morning, he bitches about his hair (which he also refuses to cut unless I read him the riot act at least three times) and then proceeds to use the equivalent of half a barrel of crude oil to keep the Astro-boy-but-with-bedhead mess down, so the sole responsibility of the tar sands at this point is to keep him a functioning member of society (debatable).
I'm not sure how this is going to play out because The Hague still isn't returning my calls, and I don't think I'm allowed to tell you to dump your Dippity-Do stock because I'm pretty sure that is what Martha Stewart went to jail for, but this is going to end. One way, or the other.