This morning, as soon as I turned off the shower, yelled through the bathroom door: “How much water are you using? This isn’t the first time you’ve taken a 15-minute shower.”

On seeing me wash a butter knife: “You just did something I want to never see you do again. Never touch the blade of a butter knife. Hold the point in between the blade and the handle to wash it.”

On showing me the bathroom: “And when you shower, always lay down this bathmat. The last person who lived here—after he showered, I saw wet footprints on that bathmat! I thought there must be something wrong with him.”

On seeing me wash a cutting board: “You’re using way too much water! Never let water get on the other side of the cutting board.”

On showing me clean dishes, which I had put in the drying rack, and which she had then placed on the counter, and some Ziploc bags of mine which I had thrown out, which she had fished out of the trash, washed, and laid on the counter: “Look at all this stuff you’ve left all over the kitchen!”

On seeing pasta cooking at a rolling boil: “The heat’s too high. You’re wasting gas, and the steam is going to strip the paint from the walls.”

On seeing me wash a spoon: “You just wasted about five gallons of water washing that spoon.”

On showing me a drop of water on the sink: “You’ve left water all over the sink. You need to clean up after yourself.”