A Charming Ode to a Comical Commode

I've traveled places in life. Some high. Some low. And some that defy proper boundaries leaving you all flushed and aghast.

Say it, say it…ahem…life has led me to some really crappy crappers, i.e. toilets of a most base and embarrassing nature, shunned and mocked by the Tidy Bowl man for countless years, not to mention some that come with annoying commentators.

 I guess my low expectations go back to sharing one bathroom with  three older brothers as I was growing up.  Unspeakable horrors? I'm quite familiar. Let's just say I resorted to survival mode and stooped to unsavory addictions; can you blame me for sniffing Old Spice cologne and soap on a rope to escape olfactory hell?

Not that adult visits back to my childhood home went any better. Bringing my family of five to utilize a toilet serviced by original pipes that had disintegrated to the durability of duct taped paper towel tubes, not to mention water pressure feeding off a tank measured not in gallons, but by tablespoons, shook my ladylike sensibilities to their core.  Add in my autistic son with a penchant for obsessive flushing and what do you have?

Yes without fail, whenever we visited, the Roto Rooter man had to come the next day as people in a 50-mile radius were no doubt experiencing cold showers every time we flushed (I’ve mentioned it was often, right?) and something resembling pureed beef stew backed up into my morning bath and the kitchen sink at my beloved childhood home.  That’s all real charming and all, but nothing beats my dad, reared in the depression, looking at us with a several hundred-dollar Roto Rooter bill in his hand and an accusatory admonition: “This really comes down to you guys using too much toilet paper.  A square or two.  That’s all you need.  Could you work on that for next time?”  Ah the nostalgia of philosophical father-daughter discussions around what constitutes a good wipe!  

It gets worse. 

Dirty confession.

I recently succumbed to using a bathroom in my son's school building that had the outside entrance door removed from its hinges, not to mention being situated in a high foot traffic area.  It's a setting that one hopes to harness the tinkling skills of a delicate tinker bell vs. oh, I don't know, Secretariat.  Alas, I always fancied myself a genteel Southern Belle, full of refined skills in swilling canned fine beers like Schlitz and Pabst Blue Ribbon, but when I looked around and saw no one there, I compromised all of my higher values. Truth be told, it felt empowering.  I am woman, hear me roar...or is it hear me tee-tee?  

What can I say?  In order to use a more private bathroom at my son’s school, I would have had to hoof up three flights of stairs, and when you are middle aged, lazy and a coffee chugging addict, that scenario really doesn’t fly so well unless you hope to model Depends latest line:  Depends thongs, now available in low rider jean versions. 

As I walked out, I made sure to turn off the lights.  Between my dad and my husband's frugality boot camp training, I know how to save my pennies.

I heard a voice.  God is that you?

Perhaps it is relevant for you to know that my son’s school shares space in a church building.  And unbeknownst to my tinkling soul, the church lady had showed up to sit in a glassed in desk area that viewed the doorless bathroom. 

“Hello!  You need to turn the lights back on," she clamored from behind a glass wall as if channeling Dana Carvey playing John Travolta in the Boy in the Plastic Bubble. 

Did I really hear a voice?  Occasionally this happens to me when I over imbibe, but I was only hopped up on Starbucks.  I made eye contact with the church lady in her glass house although I was like a deer in the headlights full of awkward confusion. Huh?  I’ve taken on a lot of tasks that I shouldn’t have: the part of Blitzen in the first grade, for example.  Have you ever tried to assemble aluminum-foiled antlers and attach them to your head and keep them there as you pull Santa’s sleigh?   It’s a real bitch especially when you are six.  How had I suddenly been flung into the director of church lighting? Talk about feeling miscast.

Church lady continued.  

“We have little kids around here, after all.”  Apparently there was a special camp going on this day, and my job was to provide them a divining light, i.e. a light switch in the upward position.  

I’m not sure if it was the church lady morphing with my own mother saying “Proper Southern ladies never give up their privacy!  It’s just not becoming!” or was I experiencing déjà vu with the Roto Rooter man and my dad analyzing my bathroom habits:  “Two sheets of toilet paper should get the job done! What's your problem?” 

I played the dismissive environmentalist card. 

“Well, I do declare, (those three words are completely imagined Southern Belle postulations), sorry but I’m used to people saying turn off the lights to conserve energy.” 

I turned on the lights and exited the building.  Humph!  Did this mean I would be fast tracked to the #1 position on the prayer chain or would I be banned forever for my wanton recklessness? Cue the organist, amazing grace how sweet the sound....

Ridiculous.  Chastised by the church lady for a bathroom lighting faux pas. Done.  Forgotten.

Except….

A few hours later I received an email from a member of my son's highly important school staff. 

“Did you have a run-in with church personnel?  (Well isn’t that special!  Okay, they are just assessing the truth of rumors no doubt perpetrated by a demonic church lady). Could you tell me what happened?” (Holy crap!  I confess!  I turned the lights off leaving innocent children vulnerable to being flushed away).

I wanted to chat with the church lady and tell her if she thought this was a “run-in” she should see the potty I endured at Uncle Shuck’s Corn Maze Carnival.  In regards to highly important school personnel, I felt like replying back in the voice of a small child.    

“I’m tho thorry.  I wath twying to be good and turn off the wights.  I didn't mean to upthet the thcary church wwwwady!”

Suffice it to say, I’m not sure what to do next time I see her.  “Golly Gee! Thanks for stalking me by the bathroom and spreading the good news! It's always a joy to discuss my tinkle habits with teachers. How enlightening!”

In the meantime, I’m on a quest for a holier, more private toilet worthy of my sophistication and pristine Southern derriere charms.  I will hike miles through tumultuous terrain if I have to, perhaps reaching a glam site where porta potties illuminate my dark world like a perpetual light switch turned on, comforting me with all their shiny bells and whistles:  doors, locks, and absent church ladies. 

What can I say?  I'm a classy gal who always aims high!