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Archives from 2002-2006

The worst home improvement decision we’ve made to date was to replace the toilet in our main bathroom. When it comes to crappers, there are only two in this house: one in the hall bathroom where we all shower and bathe and so on, and one in the tiny bathroom connected to our bedroom which I can never call a “master” bath because it’s about as roomy as stepping into a box of Saltines. Now, I know better than to complain about a lack of luxurious bathrooms because yes yes, privilege, some people have only one-sixth of a bathroom and it’s always filled with angry hornets, I’m just clarifying that there aren’t a lot of options so you can better understand the situation here.

We had to get a new toilet because the old one was truly old and was causing some sort of water leakage issue that was making the floor sort of distressingly spongy. In retrospect, I would have stuck with the squishy sounds and eventual sinkhole, because at least rotted floorboards can be dealt with when they happen, as opposed to the ongoing hate crime committed by the new toilet.

Who decided how new toilets should work, anyway? Listen, I don’t wake up in the morning and immediately begin plotting the number of ways I can personally contribute to the destruction of our planet before going outside and spending my day plunging a fork into the soil while shouting “How you like THAT, Cascadia Subduction Zone?” but my toilet appears to have been designed as punishment for some dastardly environmental sin. Its water conservation features are obvious, and yet the stingy, reluctant way it functions must surely be a burden on shared resources since multiple flushes are now required when one used to do the job.

You know what I’m talking about, right? There’s less bowl water than the Old, Earth-Killing, Yet Vastly Superior toilets and the flush action is a condiment-sized jar of pure weaksauce. Push the handle and I guess something technically happens but it’s a halfhearted namby-pamby gurgle that takes care of business as long as your business was limited to the first order of business and not the second, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Anything more robust than a slightly moistened solo-square of single-ply and your business hangs around, it endures, it’s the Shackleton Expedition of Business and it’s by god going to live to see another day unless you channel Liam Neeson and start issuing pointed threats about how you have a very particular set of skills, Business Remnants, and they involve a cabinet full of disposable wand sponges and the ability to stick your hands in disgusting places because you’ve been a parent for over a decade.

What I’m talking about is a scenario where all deposits sink through a way-too-shallow water layer and are essentially captured and prominently displayed upon a porcelain shelf — “Cigarette? Cigarillo?” — before being gently bathed with about a teaspoon’s worth of flush. Now, if you’re a caring citizen like myself, you then embark on an unpleasant and time-consuming effort to achieve the elusive Leave-No-Trace status, but if you’re one of my children, you just walk away completely oblivious to the fact that it appears as though someone has attempted to bake a Texas sheet cake in the bowl.

The worst part is that I’m the one who’s constantly dealing with everyone else’s leave-behinds, which means I’m like Winston Wolf from Pulp Fiction except way less cool, armed only with poop-specific problem-solving abilities, and lacking anyone to order around to do the dirty work. You’d think I would learn to take care of the cleanup with as little visual assessment as possible, and yet it happens so often I find myself mentally categorizing each scenario: Ah yes, my old friend, the Hershey Mudslide … an arduous job in terms of quantity and cling factor, yet still preferable to the Dexter Spatter Pattern Sneak Placement Howdy-Do-Doo.

We could replace it, but I’m not confident we’d be able to swap in anything more robust, since the bathroom aisle in every home improvement store seems to be in a competition for environmental bragging rights. While I know I should value going green over seeing brown, the truth is if there were an illegal market of toilets that operate via a steady fuel of spotted owls and polar ice caps, I’d one-click any sumbitch that also provided a pre-1999 flush.

There’s no question where my vote is going this November — when it’s down to a flawed but capable and intelligent human being or an angry animated wad of hairy circus peanut residue clinging to the nation’s collective publish button, I personally feel the choice is clear — but it’s true I might be swayed if only a candidate would address the real issue: when will we make America’s toilets great again?

It probably sounds strange to say that a cruise ship with over 3,000 people onboard is a great place to get away from it all — I mean, yes, it’s more like you’re plunged into a teeming mass of humanity, and despite the truly jaw-dropping size of the ship you’re constantly darting through crowds and lining up in great Purell-drenched droves for meals — but I think there’s a comforting sort of anonymity that comes with the bustle. At least if you’re an antisocial creeper like I am, who greatly prefers to hole up with a book and surreptitiously observe the activity rather than participate in any of it.

Also comforting is the gentle rocking movement of the ship, at least I think it is. The popularity of Sea-Bands tells me not everyone feels this way, but this was my fourth cruise and I’ve always been pleasantly lulled by the sway and churn, even on bumpier nights when everyone’s footsteps take on a comical avoiding-the-sandworm stagger-pattern.

I am blessed with not only a crippling inability to make small talk, but also no sense of direction whatsoever, which makes for a double whammy on a ginormous ocean liner filled with 1) friendly people looking for sparkling conversation, and 2) a stateroom that’s approximately 278 nautical miles from, say, the nearest deck chair. You know that awkward moment when you’re the only person in a hallway with someone heading your direction, and you’re never sure when to start smiling at them? Too early and you’re forced to hold a maniacal toothy grin for a horrific amount of time, too late and you’re a standoffish shitweasel. Probably the most stressful part of the trip were my many scurries along a hall with no end in sight, clenching bloody crescents into my palms as I desperately tried to calculate juuuuuuust the right moment to look up and arrange my features into some sort of confident ahoy-there expression that conveyed “Warm greetings” rather than “Please baby Jesus let’s just smile and not actually speak because if I have to expend one more iota of effort I’m just going to hurl myself off the lido deck, while stopping at the dessert table for another plate of brownies of course because I paid to gain ten pounds, by god, not five.”

Gosh, am I making cruising sounding fun and relaxing yet? Oh, I swear, it really is. And I’m sure you’re much better at humaning than I am.

I passed on the plethora of origami classes, scrapbooking seminars, and karaoke performances, but I did make my way onto the ship’s ice rink at one point, because come on, there was an ice rink. I love the idea of the Royal Caribbean execs sitting around brainstorming the most WTF feature to add. “Bull riding …? NASCAR. No, wait, a Costco. Or how about Frisbee golf? No no no, I’ve got it — ICE SKATING. Haaaaa, just picture these buffet-fattened fools careening around the rink on formal night.” I was exactly as awesome at ice skating as I figured I’d be, which is to say I wobbled violently along the wall for about two and half minutes before my legs went all Bambi, but I can now mark that particular experience off the Bad Idea Bucket List I don’t actually have, which is to say if I ever am forced to make such a list, I can immediately pencil in “ice skate on a moving cruise ship within a matter of months after breaking my tibia” and check it with a flourish.

(Hmm, I realize I’ve missed some commentary here. Short story: I fractured a bone back in May and spent quite a bit of time in an impressive Robocop-like brace. I’m pretty much all healed up, although I suspect my right leg may always be a little gimpy compared to the left. “Well, it’s just shitty now,” as Louis C.K. says in his bit about seeing a doctor after you’ve turned forty.)

A week with my mom and aunt was an absolute gift — oh, they are wonderful to be around, and conversation is particularly stress-free with them since we’re all on the same side of the political fence, which is, ah, a bit of a novelty for me these days — and I also enjoyed all the opportunities I had to strike out on my own, whether that was hopping on a boat in Victoria or simply lolling on my balcony and watching the waves go by. A true highlight was the private tour the three of us went on in San Francisco, hosted by an unforgettable gentleman named Holger. He not only drove us to a delightful number of sites, including a few stops I’m sure I wouldn’t have thought of on my own (the cable car museum and Lucasfilm HQ were equally great), he kept up a running German-accented chatter that charmed us silly, while all the while a music compilation he’d made ahead of time somehow magically narrated every twist and turn. “Now you know,” he said at one point as his van climbed a hill so steep I felt my eyeballs crash into the back of my skull, “Vat goes up … must come down!” before stomping on the gas and flying nose-down over the top as we shrieked in terror/delight, the gorgeous city tilted all around us, and the speakers dramatically swelled with some perfectly-chosen orchestral piece — Carl Orff’s “O My Loosening Bowels,” perhaps.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen San Fransisco when it wasn’t draped in fog, and we lucked out with two perfectly sunny days. Victoria was also cheery and blue-skied and impossibly quaint, and even the fact that I ended up canvassing pretty much the entire city on a repeated search for my return shuttle to the ship (“Just look for the bus at the same place we dropped you off!” turned out to be something of a polite pile of maple-scented mooseshit) was fine, because it was so nice to be walking in such a pretty locale and having multiple excuses to stop back in the Lush store I kept passing.

All in all, it was a wonderful vacation, and a rare treat to get away from my children long enough to miss every single thing about them, even the Nerf darts, cast-off socks, and cracker crumbs they leave wherever they go. Life has returned to its usual unglamorous cycle of laundry and homework-helping, but I came home with so many happy memories. A+++, would cruise again.

(PS: If you’re still seeing spammy dick-pill links, I am so sorry, a tech-savvy Good Samaritan is working on it for me and it should be fixed soon.)

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