Have a Nice Bidet!

 

I’m in my bathroom, standing in a nasty puddle of water, with a plunger in one hand and a bent coat hanger in the other. It’s hard to believe that just twelve hours earlier, I was eating breakfast on a cruise ship, while a man in a white jacket asked me if I wanted more smoked salmon with my omelette. Now, I’m at home trying to unclog a toilet - talk about a fall to earth. 

After about an hour, all I had managed to do was slop disgusting water everywhere. So it was time to move out of the  coat hanger era of plumbing and into the 21st century.   

I went to my laptop and booted up Chatty Cathy - my name for ChatGPT. Despite having no real world plumbing experience, which still puts her slightly ahead of me, she suggested that I bail out the toilet, then pour in a cup of dishwashing liquid and a half gallon of hot water. 

Ol’ Chatty was right - it unclogged, until the next morning, when it backed up again. That’s when I gave up and called a plumber - after all, I am a man who knows my limitations. 

He cleaned out the line in minutes, and quickly found the source of the clog - one of my black socks. Not a kid’s toy, not a paper towel. A sock. Mine.

The second he pulled it out, my wife gave me one of her patented “this is your fault” looks.  

“I didn’t do that,” I protested. “Believe me, I know the difference between a commode and a washing machine.”

“Yeah, I know you do. You actually use one of them on a regular basis.”

Ignoring that totally unnecessary sarcastic zinger, I stood there and tried to figure out how it happened. We have three dogs and no kids, so it quickly turned into a game of Clue. Mr. Plumber… with a sock… in the bathroom.

We came up with a couple of theories - but none of them were provable. I didn’t care. I was just happy it was fixed. I headed to the golf course, looking for some peace and quiet, which in hindsight, should have worried me.

When I got home, there was an unusual sound coming from our bathroom - a shriek followed by laughter.  Nobody has ever made a noise like that on a toilet and had it go well. I got closer and my wife emerged, smiling. 

“What just happened?,”  I asked. “Was it your IBS?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. After the plumber unclogged the pipe, I had him install a bidet. I just used it for the first time.”

She said it like someone who had just discovered fire. 

I peeked inside, and didn’t like what I saw. Attached to our commode was a strange device with two silver adjustment knobs. It looked like a porcelain Time Machine.

I shook my head. “Why would you do that?”

This was not like buying a throw rug without getting my OK. Installing a bidet - in a bathroom that I use - has long-term consequences - for me. 

“Because you are always complaining about how much toilet paper I use, and this will fix that. Besides, everybody in France, uses these.”

I bristled. “But we don’t  live there. We’re closer to Paris, Texas than we are to Paris, France.”

It’s true that for years I have been griping about her toilet paper consumption.  At one point, I think Charmin was sending her birthday cards. Once, I got so frustrated, I made the mistake of suggesting she was using more paper because a certain part of her anatomy was… expanding. 

That did not go well.  

Still, the fact remains that she uses more rolls of toilet paper than kids on Halloween night.

I’m old school about this kind of thing. I believe in going paperless, just not in the bathroom. I do not like the idea of pressure washing my posterior. Besides, I already fought with that toilet for over an hour. I’m not about to sit down and give it a rematch - especially now that it was armed and possibly holding a grudge. 

And I’m not certainly asking Chatty Cathy for her opinion on using a bidet.  How could I trust her? She doesn’t even have a butt.  

And considering what the plumber charged me,

he’ll probably be taking a cruise of his own pretty 

soon - while I’m at home, afraid to sit on my own toilet.