John Brazell

Sizing Up the Porcelain: and Going Green



Posted: Friday, April 23, 2010

by John Brazell

This is an indelicate subject so I'll treat it as gently as I can.

Since the passing of National Toilet Care -- in the early 90's limiting water in the toilet tank -- things in the bathroom have never been the same. The only clean bowl in the house belongs to Fido.

I was struck by the extra-long reach of Uncle Sam as precisely on the eve of April 15th my '95 regulation toilet with a miniscule 1.6 gallon tank and little downward draft went kaput. Ten minutes earlier I had sealed my thank-you-for my opportunity-to serve-note to the Internal Revenue Service. I respectfully use "service" in an animal husbandry sense. Is this bad karma, coincidence or my own rotten luck? Does the government really control all my assets and fixtures too?

They don't care that you use up 50 thousand gallons of water in your heated pool or Koi Pond. They do care if you use 1.7 gallons in your toilet bowl. It's all about controlling and impairing your sense of well being, that indeed you've left the privy during party time as pristine as the way you found it.

I passed by our downstairs downsized porcelain flip-top-chair only to hear the familiar "pssssss" of errant water wafting freely into the really black hole. I let fly a four-letter golf term, tore off the toilet lid and grabbed the barnacle-encrusted rod attached to the float. It snapped like Tiger in a Hooter's bar and I went scrambling for the turn-off valve.

Yeah, I thought, squeeze the purse-strings and command the toilet bowls and they will humbly follow. Will ration of tissue be far, ah, behind? I know why the 50's were the good old days there were potties with seven gallons of water in the tank, fender-skirts and steering knobs on a Chevy, and hope.

Somehow I remembered the "Advanced Directive" for the mini-toilets, AKA a "toilet living will." "Should this toilet gurgle, sputter or otherwise cease to function, do not attempt to resuscitate, rejuvenate or exfoliate. Allow it to pass peacefully as clutter in a landfill. It will not biodegrade but rather lie there in a contorted heap as a reminder of the struggles of mankind. Or you may make a front-yard-flower-potty as a symbol of sacrifice for the greater good.

So off we go to the Big Box to buy a Little Toilet. What hath fifteen years wrought, I whimpered? Different shapes, colors and heights with the same milk-jug-sized tank I soon discovered. But we've added gas guzzling "big as your house" SUV's. And gas grills the size of an eighteen-wheeler, and a gazillion eighteen-wheelers the size of Sears Tower . Not one lousy tenth of a gallon of water has been added to a toilet tank. Huh!

Unlike Lazy Boys, bar stools and high heel pumps, you can't try on, or out, toilets. Not even in private. Not even with your clean Levi's on. Not even with your clean Levi's off and plastic wrapped around the seat, and yours. As my patient sweetie stalked the Aisle of Porcelain I went looking for the Toilet Man. Together, like kids too short to reach the candy counter, we gawked at the overhead 1.6 displays and hoped a falling chunk of porcelain wouldn't smite us for our petty potty greed. We listened to a halting spiel, and imagined, squirmed and pondered.

"But," I asked, "How do you determine the size, shape and height that's right for you, and your guests? Are there comfort adjustments like a blow-up mattress, Fit for reading a novel' or Will pinch and circle after three minutes'?"

"I don't know for sure sir, but I'd think you and your wife wouldn't need a real big one."

And so it was that Toilet Man and I stood in the aisle, shamelessly observing patrons from the aft position for a level of understanding. I nodded and whispered, "What size for him, for her, for them ...?" From thus came an epiphany, an answer.

We bought two of the smaller-seated toilets and removed all reading material from the guest bathrooms. That ought to limit potty time, help with the growing landfill problem and we'll sooner adjust to the smaller 1.6 PINT model next year.

Here's a little, ah, heads up for our future guests. Though they're only 1.6 in caliber, when you pull the lever the darn thing goes off like a twelve gauge shotgun. Everyone in the house will know what you've been doing.

Rx for life: Light exercise, moderate consumption and heavy laughter : )

John L. Brazell is a native Texan and resides in the beautiful Hill Country near Austin, Texas. He's a retired corporate executive. John’s love for writing can be traced to high school typing class when he first typed, "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party." As the only boy in class he took the instruction literally and fell in love with a forty-pound Royal Typewriter and every girl in the class. 

He is a member of several writing groups and has been published in ezines, newsletters/newspapers, community and corporate publications. His unfinished version of the next "Great American Novel" is entitled, The Unfinished Great American Novel.

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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)
» left by Brianna Popsickle
 2 years 14 days ago.
Thanks for my first, much needed, laugh of the day John. Wonderful!
» left by John Brazell 2 years 14 days ago.
27 fans.
Brianna, always great to hear from you.  What's better than a giggle first thing in the morning?  Soooo glad you enjoyed.
 
Cheers and Happy Day,
 
Best, John
» left by Ella Camp
 2 years 14 days ago.
88 fans.
The arm of "big brother," becomes heavier as he gains more and more weight- he lowers it in small increments, hoping you won't notice too readily- but notice it we do- not being a quarter as dumb as he thinks we are.- Interesting article- Thanks -Always- Ella
» left by John Brazell 2 years 12 days ago.
27 fans.
Thanks for dropping by, Ella.  I've treated the subject lightly but indeed it proves an all too disturbing trend.  We must be diligent.
 
Best to you.  John.
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