I’m obsessed with the cleanliness of bathrooms. This became particularly challenging while pregnant when I used everything from a stump in the woods in Maine to what amounted to a hole in the floor at a gas station in the heart of Brooklyn to a clogged (and rather scary) toilet at a McDonald’s outside of DC to relieve my ever full-feeling bladder. A BJ’s-sized package of Clorox Wipes would not have been enough, in those situations.

But those are the places I can’t control. At home, I can, and I like “our bath” — AKA the master — to be ours. It’s not for guests, or delivery people or anyone else who is in our home.

I want to be able to leave things out (like the squirt bottle post-delivery) and not worry about the fact there may be a glob of toothpaste in the sink because R is oh-so-good about not leaving the water running when brushing his teeth. Plus, a bathroom is a “personal space,” almost more personal than the master bedroom, and I don’t want to share.

Apparently, George Constanza’s former friends felt the same way.