First it was installed in our home.
I thought I could work around it while we scrapped together what we were going to do with the bathroom design-wise. Then it got a crack in the seat. Then I sat on the cracked seat one unsuspecting day a little too gravitational. As I went to stand up, the seat crack that had partially separated under duress cinched back together so quickly around my tender skin, I let out a yelp of agony.
It had to go.
The contractor insisted that it was valuable, so we placed it behind the house. Over a three year period of time, it would occasionally peek out at me and beg to be Craigslisted to someone who would sit on it and somehow not lose their own flesh in the process.
But this week I had enough of its bad energy, and insisted two grown men haul it to the curb for big trash pickup. With a 7 day pickup window, I could feel the eyes of my neighbors. Don’t judge lest you be judged beoches, I recited each time I pulled out of the drive.
But the toilet was still there after six days. And then it was Saturday. Game Day. TCU fans from near and far began lining our street, a walking tailgate. Panic set in. No, shame. Hurt, bewilderment. Why was it still there? Didn’t the city care about my dignity?
But no sooner had I begun down the path of the lost and desolate when I saw something askew outside of my window. Opening the door, I verified my observation: the toilet seat and lid were up. I began walking briskly towards the toilet, now feeling betrayed by some stranger…now feeling some strange sense of ownership and territorial loyalty to this object that I wanted to get rid of, but yet was still somehow mine. Someone had stepped on our grass. Someone had touched my commode.
And like a bad scene from JackA**, I discovered that some wetting willy had peed into the toilet. Two-thirty in the afternoon, broad daylight, heavy crowds, nice neighborhood, pink toilet, rogue pee-er. To clarify further, someone showed their private parts on my front lawn. The audacity!
Today is day 10. It’s regular trash day tomorrow, so I ever-so-carefully tipped our trash bin onto its side, and pushed the toilet towards the open vessel with all my might. I pushed it in myself, pee running down and out the sides. I coached myself as if laboring a child. I am strong, that’s pushing like a girl (cue Mo’ne Davis ad), it’s only disgusting if you let it be.
I try to pretend that the City of Fort Worth won’t even notice the Bertha of a toilet amidst all of the regular black garbage bags, not to mention the limb crushing weight of the bin. I also try to pretend that none of my neighbors witnessed the pee and porcelain fireworks involved in getting that thing into the receptacle.
I wash my hands. I set my alarm. I have no plan b. Some are shouting “take the crown!” tonight for the Royals. I am shouting, “take the commode!”
Update: To my delight, the toilet was gone when I arrived home from work. I shared a good chuckle trying to visualize the two trash guys in the front seat, catching a bit of air when the toilet catapulted into the bed of the truck. “Ain’t my problem now.”