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. 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 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  plunger/coat hangar method of plumbing and into the 21st century.   

I went to my laptop and booted up Chatty Cathy - my name for ChatGPT. Despite having no direct experience in unclogging pipes, which puts her slightly ahead of me, she suggested that I bail out the toilet, then pour in a cup of dishwashing liquid, followed by 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 easily cleaned out the line, and found the source of the clog - one of my black socks. Not a kid’s toy, not a paper towel. It was a sock that belonged to me.  

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

I immediately understood her non-verbal message and protested,“I didn’t do that. 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 remark, we both wondered how it got there. Our house has three dogs and no kids. It became a version of the board game Clue. Mr. Plumber… with a sock… in the bathroom.

Eventually, we had a couple of theories - but they were nothing but speculation. I was just happy that after all my wrangling, it was fixed.  I headed to the golf course. Time for some peace and quiet, which looking back, should have worried me.

When I returned, I heard an unusual sound coming from our bathroom - a shriek followed by laughter.  I don’t think anyone has ever made a sound like that on a toilet and had it go well. I was intrigued - what could possibly cause a reaction like that? Once I got nearer to the source of the sound, my wife emerged.

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

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

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

This was not like spending money on something without consulting me, although she had done that before. Installing a bidet in a bathroom that I used had the potential to affect me every day of my life. 

“Because you always gripe about how much toilet paper I use, and this will take care of that.”

She was half right. For years, I had complained about her increasing toilet paper usage. At one point, Charmin was sending her birthday cards. Once, I got so frustrated  that I made the mistake of saying she was using more paper because a certain part of her anatomy was expanding. 

That did not go well.  

Regardless, the fact remains that she goes through more rolls of TP than kids on Halloween night.

I believe in going paperless, but not in the bathroom. I’m old school about that kind of thing. I don’t like the idea of pressure washing my posterior. Besides, yesterday I 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.

I’m not asking Chatty Cathy for her opinion. How could I trust her? She doesn’t even have a booty. And for what the plumber charged me, he’s probably booked a cruise of his own, while I’m at home, afraid to sit down and flush.