Potty Talk

Yesterday, I threw up a post about Erik, his marathon and toilet paper. TOILET PAPER. Then in a moment of clarity, I realized – One doesn't get a Rachel Unchitel size payout by talking about bathroom business AND I wish someone would pay me to keep my mouth shut. So I took it down.

It's been hard keeping my head on straight this week. We still haven't heard about the house. I'm walking a fine line between remaining optimistic and not jinxing myself. While I was working on the Toilet Paper Post (not an April Fools joke, mind you) I came across a draft of a post I'd written a few years ago that also talked about the toilet. And I realized that I forgot to include the picture of the bathroom in the last post about the house we want. So here you go:

The Old Post

A few weeks ago, Erik told me he accidentally flushed a bottle of the girls floride down the toilet. The order of events went like this: business, flush, knock bottle into bowl, whooossshhhhhh!, bottle gone. He said it so matter of factly, that it would seem as if this was indeed an everyday occurance and quite normal. I think I was out of town. Something that assinine would never occur on my watch.

The bottle of floride is big. Bigger than travel toothpaste. Smaller than contact lense solution. Since this unfortunate knock off, we've been asking everyone to please use the toilet in our bedroom. Or to try to go elsewhere, seriously.

After several attempts of scheduling, the plumbers are finally here. I can hear them in the other room. They are big men. One is sitting on the edge of the tub and the other runs back and forth retriving tools from the truck. The one sitting, reminds me of people who use the motorized carts at Walmart in Kansas. He has a toothpick in his mouth.

(I can only assume I didn't publish because I couldn't figure out an ending. I do remember, we had to replace the toilet.)

The Bathroom