I don’t do toilets

The grocery section of Wal-Mart is riddled with little cardboard booths, manned by bored looking representatives passing out free samples of mini-pizzas and lime Jello. Yesterday I was taken aback when I saw a booth hawking toilet clip-ons.

The young man at the booth looked understandably embarrassed. He had obviously drawn the short straw on product demonstrations that day. I couldn’t think of anything that would entice me to stop in a busy supermarket and sniff urinal cakes. Did the manufacturers really think that toilet bowl cleaners were an impulse purchase?

My housekeeping skills are a hot topic at the Center for Disease Control. I confess that I generally don’t clean my toilets until I can actually see the E coli. Consequently, I don’t get a lot of houseguests. Those hardy souls who are willing to use my bathroom have to pick up a key at the kitchen counter. They also have to cough up fifty cents if they want to use the condom dispenser (quarters only).

Women tend to be all business when they use the bathroom. My husband takes the crossword puzzle and makes a day of it. I’ve read that when flushing, tiny droplets spray up and out of the toilet. This is why I hate spending long periods in the bathroom. It generally involves doing a courtesy flush. Who wants to be sitting at ground zero when Old Faithful goes off?

But I digress.

Basically, I only want to see blue water if I’m standing on a hotel balcony in Cancun. If it’s in my toilet and I add the contents of a full bladder, I’ll never again be able to sample the lime Jello.