We have three perfectly good bathrooms in our house. Three bathrooms, and it’s not enough.
We don’t use the one upstairs because it’s at least 17 steps too high. There’s one in the basement, but it’s inhabited by spiders and marmosets. We don’t use it unless we need an emergency science project. So a family of four is left with one functioning bathroom, the guest loo, which we all need at the same time. Every time.
We’re in constant battle for squatting rights to the good bathroom, and no matter how long I wait, as soon as I shut the door, someone starts pounding on it, and there I am, coffee cup and magazine in hand, glaring at the tiles.
“Dad, I need to get in there.”
“I’m already in here.”
“Dad, seriously.”
“Trust me, son — this is serious.”
“Dad, I reeeeally need the bathroom.”
“There are two other bathrooms in this house,” I say, murderously.
“Dad please!” he says, tap-dancingly.
Because I’m awesome, I relinquish the lavatory, lug my load upstairs, and lock the door.
“Hon, I need to get in there.”
“I’M ALREADY IN HERE!”
“Babe, seriously.”
“I cannot tell you just how serious things are about to get in here. We’re talking foreign documentary serious. We’re talking subtitles.”
“I reeeeeeeellly need to get in there.”
“THERE ARE TWO OTHER BATHROOMS IN TH—“
“You know that picture you won’t let me put on Facebook?”
“I’ll be right out.”
I carry my coffee down two flights into the spider conservatory, wedge the door shut with a piece of cardboard, release the hounds, and prepare to shower. I balance my mug on the edge of the sink and crank up the hot water to “melt steel.” I’m lost in a welcome cloud of steam, in flagrante ablute, when I hear heavy breathing. Now, this is my basement. People have gone missing for weeks down there. I lost a friend, a good friend, somewhere near the hot water heater badlands, so the sound of breathing stops me mid-scrub, frantically searching for a sharp piece of soap I can use as a shiv when I realize the breathing is in stereo. I take a peek around the moldy curtain to see my dogs staring at me with a look on their face that means they’re about to water the plants — on my laundry. Growling, I wrap a stiff towel around my waist, shuffle over to wrench open the basement door, and scream like a girl as the dogs plow through me to get to the yard so they can pee on my towel.
Which is not on me.
Anymore.
But, hey, it’s the basement, right? If I just duck walk under the windows I can slide behind the bookcase to the bathroom. There’s another towel in there.
With my daughter, who snuck in right behind me (I think she’s in league with the hounds) and stole my shower.
“Sarah, I need to get in there.”
“I’m already in here.”
“I reallllllly need to get in there.”
“Whatever. Can you get me a towel from upstairs? I used this one as a rug.”
