Saturday, April 7, 2018

The Toilet Roll Holder

Remember back in January when I told you how my father was constantly breaking the shower curtain rod? Well…
     "Honey," my wife said to me, again giving me her sweetest smile. "You need to repair the toilet paper holder in dad’s bathroom."
     "What?" I said, almost spitting out my coffee.
     I would have sprayed it out in a comedic double-take except for two reasons: 1) it’s expensive, and 2) it's delicious. I may be cheap—I mean, frugal—but I also appreciate perfection. Gourmet coffee is too precious a commodity to be wasted trying to be funny.
     But I digress...
     “Why?” I asked my lovely wife.
     Actually, I knew why. It was my father. Godzilla may have lumbered through downtown Tokyo knocking down skyscrapers, but that giant lizard's got nothing on my father when it comes to breaking things. So, when I asked my wife why, I really wasn’t expecting an answer, but she was kind enough to provide one for me anyway.
     "Because dad says the house cleaner broke it."
     I tried to raise one eyebrow at her, the way she does when she’s irritated with me. Failing miserably, I looked in the direction of my father. He was watching baseball, his favorite pastime, and ignoring our entire conversation. If my wife had whispered she was going to Costco, he'd have already been at the car, but this particular conversation was of no interest to him.
     "I'll take care of it," I assured her.
     "Dad!" my wife called out, wanting to include him.
     Personally, I've learned it's better not to confuse my Dad with too much information. I’ll do what I need to do first, and apologize later if I have to.
     "Huh?" my father said, turning our way, but keeping one eye on the TV.
     "We need to go into your bathroom to fix the toilet paper holder."
     "You're going where to fix what?" he asked.
     "We're going to fix the toilet paper holder in your bathroom."
     My father turned back to the TV. This information didn't even deserve one eye's worth of attention from him.
     "Yeah,” he said, waving us off, “your maid is rough. She cleans too hard."
     "Maybe it wasn't her," I chimed in.
     "Yeah, it was her."
     "How do you know?"
     "I just know."
     "In that case..." I began, slowly.
     My wife knew I was about to tease my father, and gave me a perfectly raised single eyebrow of disapproval. “Don’t do it,” it advised. Her eyebrow generally gives me good advice, and I always come out ahead when I follow it. Too bad I never do.

     "...maybe the maid used your toilet,” I told him, “and, when she got up, she used the toilet paper holder for support, and her weight broke it."
     "She'd better not be using my toilet," he warned us.
     "I'm not saying she does, but if she's gotta go, she's gotta go."
     "If she’s gotta go, she'd better not be going in my bathroom."
     "Okay, pop," I told him. He was getting agitated at the thought of our cleaning lady using his toilet, so I backed off a little to let him settle down.
     "Don’t worry, dad," my wife added, trying to distract him from the image of our maid sitting on his commode. "She doesn’t."
     I left, and made my way to the scene of the crime. Entering his sanctum sanctorum, I felt like Indiana Jones. The holder should have been bolted onto the side of the sink cabinet, which is made out of one inch plywood. It wasn't. Instead, there were two large holes where the toilet paper holder used to be. It was just as I thought: when he was getting up from his porcelain throne, he used the holder for support, and his weight pulled it out of the wood.
     Trust me, I watch CSI.
     As I was reinstalling the holder, I looked up to make sure the shower curtain rod was secured properly. That’s when I got a brilliant idea. I ran it past my wife, and she agreed.
     "I don't want bathtub handles," my father told us.
     "But, dad," my wife said, "they'll make it easier for you to get in and out of the tub."
     "I don't want them, and I don't need them. You'll be wasting your money."
     "Pop," I lied, "we're installing them in our bathtub, too."
     "Well, I don't care if you need handles to get in and out of your bathtub, but I don't."
     "Dad," we both said, but it was no use.
     His mind was made up.
     And then one day my wife said the magic word “Costco.” If you think it was some kind of grand plan to get him out of the house, you'd be right. I took the opportunity to install the bathtub handles, making sure one was in reach of the toilet. When they got back my wife looked at me, and I gave her a little nod.
     "Dad," she told him, "guess what? We installed the bathtub handles you wanted."
     That was a nice try, but my father wasn’t born yesterday. I know, I’ve seen his birth certificate.
     "Good thing you’re rich," he said, sarcastically, “because you’ve just wasted your money.”
     Time may heal all wounds, but it does other things as well. Recently, my father admitted to us without actually admitting to us how much he liked the hand support.
     "Why didn’t you install them before?" he told me. “Like I wanted you to.”
     My wife nodded her head, agreeing with him.
     And you know what?
     Nothing has broken since.           
     
When my wife and father are busy shopping at Costco, you can find me being frugal at RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com, JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com, or @JimDuchene. 
     
as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
desertexposure.com   
     
American Chimpanzee
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene
   

No comments:

Post a Comment