Michael D. Davis

I wanted to talk about Thanksgiving this week. Maybe tell some funny story about me and a turkey or something. But I can’t. There’s something else that needs to be talked about today.

I’ll begin with the fact that there are four people in my family. And we are all nestled under one roof. To make this work, as dysfunctional as it may, everyone has their part to play. Everyone has a job.

My father has three things he takes care of around the house and ever has. Firstly, was teaching me and my sister how to drive. My Ma wanted nothing to do with it. And I can’t blame her. But this is a story for another day. Second is the garbage. Once a week, the old man takes the garbage bins from the garage to the curb; and then back again. I could elaborate on this, but again not today.

My father’s third job around the house is general maintenance. Granted, this has changed over the years as the man is seventy years old, but it’s still his job. He no longer gets under the car to change the oil, but if I hear a thumpa thumpa noise, he’s the one I go to, and he’s the one that makes the appointment to get it checked.

Now, in his jurisdiction of general maintenance falls the changing of the toilet seat. It’s not a job required every day, but it is still necessary. The relationship a person has with their toilet seat is not only intimate but long lasting. The average lifespan of a toilet seat is five years. Five years. Think about that.

A person could get married, get divorced, see a president elected, and then another president elected, all from the same throne. I am saying a person could have earned a Ph.D. and never had to change their toilet seat. So, this is not a subject to be taken lightly.

The toilet seat we’ve been using the past couple of years has been wood. It wasn’t too flashy, it wasn’t too out there, it was perfect. Then it split. Technically, cracked. Yes, I see the irony. The crack, of course, managed to be in the worst possible area, at the bottom of the oval at the edge of the bowl. And it went through and through from the inside to the outside. Depending on your sitting position, it was positioned right between your thighs.

My Ma nearly immediately bought a new seat. She brought the packaged item home and sat it close to the bathroom door for everyone including my father to see. This was about six months ago. In those six months, the only thing that happened to the new toilet seat was that it went on a journey from near the bathroom to next to the dishwasher, then to behind the dirty laundry.

How the old toilet seat didn’t snap in two is beyond me. A mystery for the ages. But things did get worse. About two weeks ago an inch-long chip of wood snapped straight up on the toilet seat. And trust me, if there is any place where you don’t want an inch-long chip of wood sitting straight up it’s on the toilet seat.

Eventually, my Ma ripped it off. So then the toilet seat was smooth wood with a large crack and chip taken out of it revealing a plywood substance underneath.

I don’t know if you’ve ever sat on plywood to do your business, but it isn’t pleasant. However, it did not bother the old man. My father not only has a posterior flatter than a cat that walked onto a race track, but I am now thinking it’s also made of stone.

The rest of us were getting more and more upset with the toilet seat, and we made it known to him in a variety of words. Eventually, I took the new toilet seat and placed it on the back of the toilet just for ease of access. But nothing.

Earlier today, my sister reached her breaking point. She’d had it. My sister replaced the toilet seat herself. This heroic act does not go unseen or unappreciated. However, as good, as smooth as the new throne cover feels on my fleshy backside, I see a problem. The reason why we were waiting for the old man to change the seat was so that he could prevent this problem. As eager as I was to pop a squat on the new seat, I am left crestfallen as I slip, I slide, and I realize that it’s not on tight enough.