I am rarely moved to poetry, but then, home renovations are even more rare in my world, save for the occasional lightbulb or lampshade.
Last weekend was surprisingly eventful, though, and confirmation that marriage is indeed a partnership, and crisis nearly always brings you closer. Remind me to tell the story of our first "date" sometime, which culminated at 2am on a deserted Pittsburgh street with one of us holding a tire iron and the other a jack, as the S.W.A.T. van drove by.
And so, for my dear Daniel, I present the following. I didn't say it was good poetry, but it comes from the heart.
Ode on a Toilet Seat
For many a year, a month, a week,
we had turned a blind eye to the old toilet seat.
What I cannot see couldn’t kill me, I thought.
(Domestic Goddess, I am not.)
But on Saturday morning, just this past week
the gross-out factor reached its peak.
I got a good look where the brush couldn’t reach,
and firmly repressed an ear-splitting shriek.
So off to Canadian Tire we went,
a magical land where much money was spent.
We returned home, proud owners of wrenches (not tires)
and a new toilet seat, Some Assembly Required.
The first step, brave husband, remove the old seat,
then much cleaning and scrubbing for me, what a treat!
But the old seat removal proved no piece of cake -
it had been attached 15 years, give or take -
at that time installed, by some sick (not us) putz,
using metal bolts, and plastic nuts.
Those bolts were rusted through and through.
It was as though they’d been attached with glue.
(Glue would be easier, I thought to myself -
there’s chemicals to dissolve that stuff.)
But we crawled in behind the old toilet and tried
not to think of the state of things growing inside.
Much swearing and WD-40 ensued,
but the seat would not budge from its toilet friend true.
A couple hours later, still having no luck,
an “Aha!” from the husband as inspiration struck.
“Break the old (plastic) seat, leaving just rusty bolts,
then hit from the top, they’ll fall out with a jolt!”
With sponge, mop, and gloves, I descended in turn
to crawl in behind there and kill scary germs.
Once scoured, the new seat it’s time to attach -
So we opened it, only to find it was cracked.
Thus, back to Canadian Tire I raced
to return it, by closing, and try to replace.
My mission successful, the seat was installed
in its clean, shiny glory - clamshell pattern and all.
And as I first sat upon the new throne
and opened up a hefty tome
(for reading material was now required),
I’m certain I heard a heavenly choir.
And I said, “Hey guys, do you have to watch?
This is kind of a private moment, as such.”
The descending angels did look abashed,
for I was sitting there quite bare-assed.
And here Ends my Tail, we are wiser (a smidge),
and God help us if I look beneath that old fridge.