Playful, elegant, and not above the judicious use of the word “shit."

Sneaking off to flush beach towels

The man who previously owned our house remodeled the tiny basement several years ago and installed a bathroom. The tile job in in the shower is crooked and annoyingly Tex Mex in color and pattern — when we moved in every window in the house was decorated with a homemade plaid valance that would match a bottle of Pepto-Bismol — but the worst part of that basement bathroom has always been the toilet. We joke that he must have bought it at a yard sale because we have never been able to use it without having to plunge it four or five times afterward. The last time my cousin DORJ! was visiting he came upstairs one morning with a grim look on his face and said, “I don’t think your toilet was prepared for me.”

Ever since we had the sewer line replaced, however, that toilet has been behaving as if it were the throne of a king, like it was bought from a high-end specialty catalogue of bathroom fixtures. We haven’t had to plunge it once. There is a really deranged sense of freedom we have now about using the bathroom. It’s kind of like the son of a preacher being introduced to sex for the first time: it’s all we can think about. When can we do it again? And won’t it be thrilling?

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