Aphorized

Just beneath the surface of normal


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How I Almost Shot My Toilet

So the other night I was lying in bed, running the shiatsu neck massager collar thing to soothe my tension headache – which I swear is not a euphemism for anything:

There’s no way you could even try to use this for any other purpose. It’s totally covered in fabric.

Suddenly there’s this huge crash/breaking glass sound coming from the bathroom. My reaction to it is proof that Lexapro works on anxiety: I was all, “shit, what the holy hell was that?!” but then I got up like a grownup and went into the bathroom to see what it was, even though there was a tiny part of me screaming that I would be going to my death in doing so.

We keep a little glass tray on the back of the toilet with colored rocks on it (shut up, it’s decorative). Well, I should say “kept”, because it was scattered all over the floor in a thousand chunky semi-shards, as though the manufacturer couldn’t decide whether to make it from safety glass or regular glass and so just threw in both like some kind of crazy home decorators’ Russian roulette. Being that it was after midnight, I figured I’d deal with the rocks and broken glass in the morning and went back to bed, wondering how it fell off. Was it a poltergeist? A hiding home invader? The vibrations from the shiatsu neck massager? No matter – damage done, more neck massagies for me!

And then it fucking happened again.

At that point, my anxiety kicked Lexapro in the balls and I dialed 911, just so I could have someone on the phone with me while I checked out what kept breaking glass inside my house after midnight. I would have called Jim, but he has a cold and went to bed at like 8:30 and I figured on the off chance there actually was a burglar in the house, there wasn’t much he was going to be able to do about it from Manhattan. So 911.

Be forewarned: when you call 911, they are legally obligated to send someone to your house to check things out. I checked everything out with the encouragement of the nice man on the phone, and determined that nothing else was broken. The windows were intact, and nobody else was in the house. That I could tell. I totally forgot to check behind the shower curtain.

I begged him not to send over an officer, not only because I was pretty sure I was in the clear, and because my house was far too messy for strangers to see, but also because my ability to tell them what happened without things getting weird was failing.

When asked what I thought was the source of the crash, I sort of skirted around the whole, “my vibrating massager may or may not have caused trays full of rocks to fall off toilets in the next room” and stuck with “I really don’t know.” And for reasons I can’t even explain, except maybe that one lie begets another, I didn’t tell him how there were two crashes and it was only the second one that scared the bejeezus out of me. I just went into the bathroom and “discovered” all the stuff on the floor again, and nothing was really any different so there was no point in backing up (I still don’t know what that second crash was). So now I’ve lied to an emergency dispatcher, which is kind of like perjury, so I’m totally going to jail. So no, I don’t want an officer to drop by, thanks.

But he did, and I apologized for my messy house, explaining that we’d just had a death in the family. Which kind of made it sound like we’d just inherited a bunch of stuff, not that I’d been bummed out by my grandfather dying, but I wasn’t about to straighten that out, because before you know it I’d be trying to explain how my vibrator causes poltergeists. And technically, that would have been more perjury, because it’s still just a neck massager.

So now it’s 12:30 a.m. and I’m wired with adrenalin and embarrassment, so I did what anyone would do in such a situation: I Facebooked it.

The short version, in case you don’t want to read this whole post. Except there are only a couple of paragraphs left, so you might as well finish it. Sorry, this should probably have gone up top.

And then I tried to go to sleep, even though I never noticed how many little noises my house makes that sound like someone moving around in it. I’m pretty sure it was just the radiators, because they can be pretty noisy on a cold night. But it could also have been someone quietly stepping out from behind the shower curtain and leaving because “what the hell have I gotten myself into here?”

Mostly everyone on Facebook was really sympathetic, but a couple of my friends from back home suggested that this is why people have guns.

Now, arguments about regulation aside, I am all about them having the right to have one, if that’s what works for them. But you know what? I’m exactly the sort of person who shouldn’t own a firearm. I don’t really want to get into the politics of it because I’m a total fucking chicken there are people who express my thoughts on the subject far more eloquently than I. But suffice it to say, I am exactly NOT the person anyone wants as a firearm representative. I am the kind of person who gets so scared that she loses her head and shoots first and asks questions later, and let me tell you – DEAD TOILETS TELL NO TALES, PEOPLE. Worse, I could have shot the cat. I would be to the firearm cause what the Westboro Baptist Church is to Christianity.

That was a pretty weird metaphor. Let me state that more clearly: PTSD and firearms do not make great bedfellows. One unfortunate toilet incident and the NRA would throw up their hands and be all, “you know what? Just forget it.”

Not my toilet, but you get the idea. There are no winners here. Except maybe the Internet, where you can find a picture of literally anything.

You’re welcome, NRA.