Things we do under protest...

My Grandma had an annoying little rhyme. (Actually she had several, but this one is pertinent to the theme!)

"A man convinced against his will
Is of the same opinion still," Gran used to say.

Man, I used to hate her little rhymes and sayings! Mostly because they were bang on.

I have occupants of this house here, two "men". One man, one teenager who, while being of legal age, hasn't quite caught up to himself yet. I call it "nineteen, going on six."

Neither of these men can hang up a towel.

Not just any towel, you understand.

The hand-towel in the bathroom.

Before I let Hubby into my life, Daughter and I always managed to get the towel hanging straight, back on the towel rack, where it belonged.

When Hubby first arrived on the scene with his two DNA replicants however, the towel began to reside on the floor.

Under the towel rack.

Various excuses were made. "It's too high," or "it's too slippery" or the old favourite, "It wasn't me."

Yeah, right.

I clothes-pinned the towel to itself. They'd take the clothespin off, and drop the towel on the floor, and just for good measure, drop the clothespin on top of it.

I put in safety pins. That actually worked for two whole days, before an enterprising, if uncooperative, individual unpinned them, dropped the towel on the floor, and hid the pins in the glass for rinsing after brushing.

I tried separate towels, with name labels. But one particularly uncooperative individual decided to use everybody's towel but his own, leaving his untouched on the bar, and the other three towels on the floor.

I left notes taped to the wall, pleading, cajoling, and threatening them if the towel wasn't put back properly. They seemed to find these exquisitely amusing.

But the towel stayed on the floor.

A couple of birthdays ago, the youngest agreed she was quite capable of hanging the towel back up. And we had relative peace, except when Hubby knocked it off onto the floor, by "accident."

Then StepSon returned this summer. Nineteen, going on six.

And the towel lives on the floor once again.

I'm getting desperate. There doesn't seem to be any way I can convince either Hubby or StepSon that this issue is important. At all.

If StepSon were in his seventies, we'd be trying to get him into a "home." He leaves the freezer door open. He leaves the milk out on the counter. He leaves the burner on the stove on high, with nothing on it, and goes out for the afternoon. Not to mention the myriad stacks of glasses, cups, plates, cutlery, and candy wrappers he collects under the sofa, on top of the computer, in front of the tv. Sometimes the pile is so high, we can't even see the tv. And it's a BIG tv!

I have ordered. I have begged. I have screamed. I have cried. I have explained patiently. I have explained impatiently.

I am talking to the Rocks of Gibraltar. Two very stubborn Irishmen, with one soul between the two of them. I may as well be talking to the cat.

I'm now begging you, anyone who reads this, HELP ME!!!!! I'm DESPERATE! Please give me some ideas, any ideas, as to how I can drive this point home to these two individuals (short of nailing a note into their crania, that is...).

Please help. I don't think I can hold out much longer!