My Toilet

I was looking at the pen, on the magazine, lying on the tub sill.  And then I glanced down and saw the pen sticking out of Neruda’s “Confieso que he Vivido,” and I thought that someone else might look at the scene and think, “This is not normal.” Who has piles of magazine, books, highlighters and pens, toiletside?

For all of my germophobe friends, let’s name the initial grossness of it all. I know, disgusting. My scientist girlfriend has explained how the molecules float when you flush the toilet (or some shit like that), and therefore closes the lid every time she flushes, and kindly asked that I do the same, when I peed at her house.  And I’m sure there are many other nasty tales that should discourage me from my toilet towers of books.  Meh. It’s not going to change. 

It started with my Dad.  When I was a little girl, he had books piled near the toilet.  One of the things he had was a book about speed-reading.  I was in 1^st grade, and reading that book on the toilet.  How to speed read.  I think that took me far.  Weeks ago, I was sitting on his toilet and saw that he’s reading, “Little Big Man.”  For Christmas, I bought him Team of Rivals.  It hasn’t made it toiletside, but I’m keeping an eye out. 

It just so happens that for the last 22 years, I’ve shared a home with a very organized and clean man, who, if it weren’t for me, wouldn’t be caught dead with any pile anywhere in his house, much less, by his toilet.  He has resigned himself though, to my papers and books, everywhere, and has painfully accepted the insanity by the toilet. 

He was devastated when our two boys began putting their books in the bathroom too.  Not only was it a challenge, in terms of stacking that shit in some semblance of order, but also because he did the math and figured out it was going to triple the madness.  It started with baby board books.  Pablo would sit on the bath sill and read to the boy on the toilet.  As my oldest got older, he started reading on the toilet, on his own.  Which has created another dilemma of being in our one-bathroom home.  We are now standing in line to use the bathroom.  “No reading in the bathroom,” is what Pablo shouts after Camilo when he goes in, knowing full well that he’ll have to bang on the door if he is serious about getting in.  

Camilo has an obsession with astrophysics and origami.  So, next to my teaching, poetry, fiction, history, magazines and Buddhist philosophy books, you will also find Stephen Hawking, Stephen King, Robert Lang and young adult fiction.  Our youngest, Ernesto, just ventured into non-fiction, so next to “How do Dinosaurs Play with their Friends?” you will also find, “Earthquakes and Volcanoes.”

I’m sorry, dear husband, that our children are now storing their books and reading at the toilet.  Consider it a family tradition and their grandfather’s legacy?  You can’t hold that against us, can you? 

P.s. For those of you who are wondering who I am referring to, when I speak of my father, I should say that we reunited after 22 years of separation.  But that my friends, is another story. 

p.s.s.  Another post will be about how I would rather be reading and writing, than cleaning my house. If you happen to see more images of my home, don’t judge me.  To the disappointment of many of my home-design-minded friends and family, the potential of our beautiful home is not being taken advantage of, and they are waiting for the moment when we’ll give a rat’s ass.  For now, all of the oak in our home, the stained glass windows and our lovely garden, will just have to continue to pine for our attention.  Wa. Wa.