The Right Room for It

“These subjects don’t come up with our other friends,” we were told this weekend.  This was after about four hours of non-stop laughing so I was pretty sure we weren’t being offensive.  These friends seem to share our same limit where funny stops and disgusting begins.  We can stay well within the appropriate range while talking about all sorts of bodily functions, especially passing gas. 

Once someone points something out like this, you tend to notice how much you talk about it.  Before breakfast this morning, Charlie and I were already started in on our first fart conversation.  I can’t even remember how the subject came up. 

“Every week during the third grade,” Charlie said, “we’d sit on the floor in a circle to read.  This one kid, Dennis, he’d look around and wait for the perfect time to pass gas.  Everybody would break out laughing.  The teacher got so mad at me because I couldn’t stop laughing.  The madder she got, the harder I laughed.   That’s when I realized farts were funny.”

You never stop learning something new about your spouse, do you?

“When my sister and I passed gas,” Charlie continued, “my mother used to say, ‘If you’re going to do that, go to the bathroom.  That’s the right room for it.’  We’d look at each other and say, ‘Why would we want to do that?’  I still don’t know how that makes sense.  I don’t understand how that works.  Isn’t the bathroom for more tangible things?”

The enclosed space of a bathroom and the enjoyment of passing gas do not blend well together when you have only one functioning bathroom.  They also don’t blen together when you’re working on the door-less non-functioning bathroom, and you have a certain natural response to a bathroom.  This is why I got out of the house today when Charlie first started working on the bathroom.

He wasn’t around when I returned but he was thoughtful enough to leave a message on the phone.  “I had to get plumbing parts,” he said.  “I turned off the water, so don’t take a crap or anything.”  I didn’t think anything about it until I wondered, ‘Do I know any other women who’ve listened to messages like this on their phones?’

He seemed to be taking his time and I drank a lot of Peet’s this morning.  I paged him and let him know these facts.  I let him draw his own conclusions.  Now we’re even: he probably doesn’t know other men who receive pages detailing their wife’s bathroom habits.

He returned home before the situation became unbearable for me.  I’ve lived without a bathroom; I know exactly how much time I have.

Charlie turned on the water and started in the bathroom tiling.  I thought I’d be a good wife and see what he was doing.  This is an important room, after all.

“You’re supposed to draw two perpendicular lines on the floor,” he said.  “You’re supposed to have a grid so everything’s straight.  I’ve looked through gun sights all my life, so I feel confident drawing only one line.  I’m a one-line guy.”

He mixed the thin-set mortar and started laying down tile.  He kept telling me to cut tile for him; telling me I’d like it.  I found excuses to do it later.  It was more fun to watch.  I might want to do this sometime but I’d have to work up to it on an inconspicuous part of the house.  I’ll let the man of the house do the bathroom.  It seems more appropriate. 

He gave up asking me to cut his tile, so I felt safe asking more questions without having to do work afterward.  I asked him, “Why do you start on the entryway side?”

“I like to lay it in rows,” he said, “starting from the doorway toward the opposite wall.  You start with solid pieces of tile then you work your way back so you get the appearance of the tile disappearing under the wall.”

He checked the level of the floor and spread extra thin-set mortar on the uneven spots.  It looked fun, but it was more fun to look.  So far I’ve done nothing today and I intend to keep it that way.

The Vegan came home and said, “You’re going to tile yourself into a corner.”

Charlie explained the ways of tiling, showing he’s given some thought to what he’s doing.  The Vegan stared and, seeing nothing further to find fault with, left.

After finishing the first row, the General came by to check on his work.  “Big deal,” she said.  “You’ve got three tiles laid down.”

“Nothing like a compliment to keep you going,” Charlie said.  “I’m working my ass off for a silent stare and a ‘big deal.’  I’ll show them.”

Ever since I read him an article about the science of passing gas, he hasn’t held back.  He tells me it’s my fault for telling me holding back could cause gastrointestinal damage.  He’s polite, though.  He listened to his Mom: he uses the bathroom.

I went back downstairs to unimportant work doing things that didn’t need to be done.  Charlie and the Vegan and General were all upstairs.  Every time one of the kids walked by the bathroom, they made a comment about the odor.  Charlie could have blamed the smell on the future toilet’s open waste pipe hole.  He laughed instead.  They quickly found other things to do where the air is clear.

When I was brave enough, I went upstairs again to see how he was doing.  He was the most content I’ve seen him all weekend.  He’s in the bathroom, covering the crappy bathroom floor with beautiful tile, doing a good job of keeping his gastrointestinal system healthy. 

His mother would be proud.

A little help? [] 10:53:29 PM