Written October 23rd 2014
So a pretext to this story: I’ve recently moved in with the fella’ and the poor dear is discovering for the first time what and utter and complete walking disaster I truly am. And that his pristine, new apartment basically had a bull in the form of his girlfriend running through it. I had actually managed in a matter of days to punch noticeable holes in not only a wall but also the floor just by simple movements and horrible inexplicable luck.
So the fella’ has taken to saying ” don’t set the place on fire” when he leaves me alone in the morning. He says it adorably but he could very well likely fear that I may burn the place down and rightly so.
I had recently taken up running not too long after I had sent an iron plummeting through his unblemished bathroom floor and so I was trying to be very carful going through the bathroom putting on my shoes to head out for my run. I was sitting on the closed toilet seat quaintly tying my shoes when all of a sudden my butt cheeks plummet through the seat cover and I am dunked into the toilet bowl. The seat has caved in after havering slide entirely off the bowl. There I am, half in and legs dangling off the side of the toilet bowl in utter shock all the while thinking ” oh CRAP…. He is going to kill me for this.” And here is where the adventure begins.
I haul my sore ass out of the toilet bowl and kick into high gear: the fella had only left minutes before and I was already in trouble. I bent down to inspect what on earth had caused this Incident and find that the plastic “screws” that are holding the seat on have totally worn out and that this was in fact not my fault and could have occurred at any other more compromising time. However this was only mildly reassuring because I still had a toilet with a seat in twenty pieces.
So the first question that comes to mind is how in hell’s name do I say toilet seat in French? Because the inevitable fact is that I’m going to have to find a new toilet seat by the time the fella gets home. And the awkward frantic google searching began. Toilet seat in French: abate toilette. Ok one thing down and now: how on earth do I go about BUYING a toilet seat? Then I had to… For the first time in my life figure out how one even goes about measuring a toilet seat. Here I am: a Monday morning in running shorts and a tank top dashing between my toilet bowl and the computer trying to figure out how I’m going to deal with this. Despite my greatest efforts ( and all the while converting to metric) come to find out that the reason that the toilet seat flew off the rim and sent me into a very embarrassing position is the fact that our throne is seemingly the exception to every toilet seat rule! because there existed absolutely no product with the same measurements as this one. Of course France…. You always have to be the exception don’t you?
Still in my running clothes I figured I might as well get some exercise out of this and I set out at a jog across the Seine to a store I had found online that had something quite manageable price-wise. I get to the store and can’t find my product but I can find the same thing for 10 euros more. Finally I just buy the thing and take the metro home. There I was covered in sweat in running shorts with a toilet seat in my hands (because a bag cost extra and I didn’t have another euro) in a crowded metro full of tourists sending me side long glances and me looking back thinking “you have NO idea what kind of morning I’ve had. »