the dirty laundry show

There’s not a lot we can agree on as Americans these days, but here’s one thing I’ll bet could unite the masses: how absolutely God-awful my downstairs bathroom is.

Now, look, when you buy a house, you’re not always taking in all of the details. You focus on the majors – how many bedrooms? Can I actually cook in this kitchen? Is the yard flat enough that my barbecue guests won’t succumb to the forces of gravity and end up dogpiled at my back fence?

But the size of the closets, the availability of storage space, the layout of the second bathroom… these weren’t dealbreakers for me.

Our kids were still tots, but every new day that I awoke in our old house, it felt as though I’d snacked on another morsel of Alice’s “grow larger” mushroom. Things were TIGHT, and not in the early 2000’s vernacular for “cool.”

So we made the leap a few hills over to a slightly larger, much flatter piece of earth. I thank God all the time for prompting us to do so when our local housing prices weren’t yet irreverent… but that’s mostly to butter Him up before I proceed to unleash a torrent of colorful language about our guest bathroom.

It’s what a realtor might call a “creative” and “intimate” space. In real life, this translates into a single-sink vanity that somehow takes up an entire quarter of the room and a standing shower with sliding glass doors that makes me feel the way food must feel in a to-go container.

All of that is manageable, I suppose, but the true insult is the commode. My whole life, I’ll always wonder where the previous owners found a kid-sized toilet they could squeeze into the minuscule space between the sliding glass and the wall. It was an affront to all humans, forcing us (and our house guests) to curl up roly poly-like with our knees crammed against the shower door.

And without going into gory detail, I’ll just say that a smaller toilet means a smaller exit pipe in which any number two, no matter how slight, is going to clog. And flood.

The thing was downright possessed. Nobody dug it. I have a sneaking suspicion this is the entire reason our friends never seemed to pee when they came over. It was an ongoing mystery, and I should’ve probably checked our outside bushes more thoroughly for post-fete “sign.”

No matter – because this week, we finally did what we should’ve done Day One: bought a bigger toilet and turned it 45 degrees toward the center of the room.

The difference is palpable. All of a sudden, instead of a bitter, single-bathroom family decrying our useless alleged second bath, we’re enjoying both options equally.

Just a small shift in the perch point and our entire life changes.

It’s a beautiful mind picture (if you can see past the toilet aspect). And it’s one I thought about frequently this week after my husband made a joke about one of my dinners.

To be fair, we joke a lot around here. Every once in a while, the joke doesn’t land – it atom bombs. When this happened, I escaped into solitude in our downstairs guest room/office to furiously journal about the unfairness of it all.

Sequestered away in the darkening evening, I scratched away in my Moleskine, listing out all of the selfless acts of love I do every day for my ungrateful family. When my hand began cramping, I bought more alone time by lazily flipping back through previous journal entries.

One in particular stood out. Apparently, in late fall of 2022, I was in a shame spiral over some harsh words spoken toward my husband. And it wasn’t the first time – I noted in the entry how offloading my bad mood onto him had become something of a habit.

Suddenly, I found myself in the throes of a toilet-level shift in perspective. From this new vantage point, I could see past the speck of belly button lint in my foe to the massive redwood blocking out any shred of light on my side of the street.

But even knowing that forgiveness is the better way, how impossible it feels to do. People in this world are being lied to, beaten, and worse. One off-hand comment and I’m ready to set the house on fire with righteous indignation. (Maybe then we could re-build a bathroom that works).

Flushing (ha!) out the toxins became easier, however, when I considered the laundry list of wrongs any member of my family could bring against ME. Holding up that mirror isn’t fun in the least, but I’d rather see things as they are than live in my own pretend universe alone.

There are times when overlooking an offense has come more easily. Some days, I can see the light from right where I’m sitting. Other days, it requires a concerted effort. I have to open up my toolbox and scrounge around for a few replacement parts before dusting off my life manual and dedicating some real time to realigning my position.

This is what it means to be a human among other humans. People will break your favorite coffee mug, flat tire your shoe in a Cabela’s, let their ferocious dogs bark at all hours in the yard next door, and worse. Certain moments, you’ll feel crammed into a space far too tight and determine to avoid being around people ever again.

Bust out your wrench, borrow a drill bit from your friend Jordan, and get to work. Sure, the screws are old and rusted onto the porcelain. You’ll have to clunk around and cuss for several hours trying to deconstruct and re-fit the pieces together. But the only aspect you CAN change is your own perch point. And, oh, the freedom you’ll gain with the slightest rotation.