Mini background story for the following entry:
While I was in Italy, I found it a little strange that they didn't put toilet seats on toilets; you would just sit on the porcelain rim. It wasn't uncomfortable, just a little cold. I inquired about this in Cinque Terre, and Ivo (owner of Bar Centrale) said that it is easier to clean and that "Dudes can't mess it up too bad for the ladies."
Now then...
Karen purchased the toilet seat from Wal-Mart and bought me dinner to bribe me into doing the most horrible of tasks. When we arrived to Oxford this afternoon, we were thrilled with the way the apartment looked; the renovations in the kitchen were still great, and the new carpet and paint had the place smelling like fresh construction.
Upon entering the updated bathroom, however, it came to our attention that the moderately white toilet seat we had seen back in June was no longer there. Instead, we were faced with a molded monstrosity of sick-nasty-grossness. There was no cleaning it. The seat had to go. (It was so horrible that we refused to perch on the thing.) For some reason, the entire bath was renovated with the exception of the toilet seat.
After being wined and dined by Karen (Chipotle and a glass or two of pinot noir), I go forth to conquer the problem. Screwdriver and sparkly, clean seat in hand, I approach the beast.
"Karen, I think I am going to need another glass of wine after this!" I shout. I hear her stifling laughter from the safety of her bedroom.
Let's just say that it was apparent that men lived in my apartment before me and that they must have had a huge mental block when it came to taking care of their toilet seat.
Ten minutes later I was finally finished finessing the old one off (I will save you from the graphic details) and we were in business.
A new glass of vino in my hand, I finally understood the brilliance of the porcelain-rim only model Italian public facilities have adopted.
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