Last night while looking at a television program, Mother Nature called to impose an urgent duty upon me. I hauled my warm comfy bum out from under the down comforter we keep on the sofa and padded across the basement to the toilet. Side effects of living with a man caused the need to lower the seat, and in the process the lid fell down and landed on the cuticle of my thumb with what felt like the force of a jackhammer. So, I hollered and cussed and whimpered.
From the living room comes: “Aw come on Janie, the seat isn’t that cold.”
The fact that it was is rather besides the point. After finishing my duty to Mother Nature, I returned to the sofa where I explained with as much faux dignity that I could muster that he could poke fun all he wanted but my finger got smashed and pinched and it hurt.
And, it never would have happened if those who could pee standing up would kindly remember to put the seat back down when they were done. The logical rebuttal to that would likely have been, well be sure to be born with the proper equipment for peeing standing up. Sensibly though, the converstation didn’t take that turn. Instead Leif acted suitably sympathetic, we re-adjusted the comforter, filled our mouths with ice cream sandwiches and resumed the DVD; domestic felicity maintained.
This morning, however, there is a faint blood blister on the edge of my cuticle. Who’d have thought there was the possibility of maiming due to fingers being crushed between toilet seat and lid? Beware the dangers of toilet seats. It was very traumatic, but I think I can avoid the need to steal toilet seats and build a shrine in a tree (need I point out, I didn’t think of that last bit, it is a reference to Dead Like Me).
Janie's Place 