I still don't know how it works.
Last night I went over to my parent's house to help them pick out paint colors for their walls. I kind of feel like an Honorary Member of the HGTV Design Team when I'm asked to help with interior design; except the feeling is really short lived because the extent of my involvement includes fanning the sample book open against the wall and my dad arbitrarily pointing at the nearest swatch announcing, "That looks alright." Then I glance towards my mother and ask, "Can you live with this color? Or will it slowly send you slipping into the inner depths of hell to the point you will snap and stab your husband 487 times in his sleep because the wall color was so god-awful you couldn't take it anymore?" My mom then shrugs and says, "that one's alright." She's either very laid back or is quietly laying the groundwork for her defense. Either way the whole picking-out-the-paint-color process takes about eighteen seconds which leaves us lots of time left over to discuss the great mysteries in life, like bidets.
Since my father is Australian, which is practically European French, I figured he would know all about bidets and how someone would, uh, navigate the use of one. But he got all prickly when I asked him and was all accusatory with his I don't know how to use one! I don't know what they are! Why would you look at me and ask that? which made me think maybe he had a bad experience with one and just didn't want to talk about it. Kind of like that time when I was 10 and overheard my mom laughing about how he accidently dipped in to the VICKS Vapor Rub to soothe his hemorrhoids thinking it was Vaseline and then told me not to say anything to my dad about hearing that because he was sensitive about the whole thing. Then she repeated the word sensitive and tried to stifle a laugh. When I was 17 and found out what hemorrhoids actually were I remembered the VICKS and suddenly that whole exchange was really funny! But it wasn't funny at all when I turned 28 and experienced hemorrhoids firsthand after the birth of my second child. There is nothing funny about hemorrhoids, y'all. Nothing.
"I just don't get bidets," I continued as the two of them stared at me. "As a woman you seriously expect me to drip while I hobble over from the toilet to the bidet? And then what? Water splashes and -- I'm still wet. How is that helping?"
At this point my father was looking at me as if I had escaped some sort of state institution. He tried to distract me off topic by announcing he made scones earlier in the day.
"I mean, isn't the point to make sure you're dry after you go to the bathroom. Like I'm going to want to walk around with drippage."
Chocolate Chip and also Plain scones.
"I just don't understand them. I don't get how people actually use them."
"Do you really need to know," my father muttered under his breath.
"Yes I do. I don't like not knowing how things work. I mean, is there no toilet paper usage at all? Do you just sit there waiting to drip dry?"
At this point my mother tried to salvage some dignity of the conversation by tactfully suggesting perhaps they were only used for after.... you know.
"When you poop? Well that would be worse. I wouldn't trust a bit of water to do the job. Unless it was a lot of water with a pretty good force."
"No, not that. The other thing...."
"What other thing? There's more than two things you can do?!" (This was certainly news to me.)
"No. After..." she looked to her left and to her right to ensure we were still the only three people in her kitchen. Lowering her voice to a whisper she said, "...after sex." Then yes, she actually threw her hands up to cover her face and giggled. Giggled, people.
There are two things I have never seen my mother do. And that would be giggle and say the word 'sex' out loud. In front of witnesses. Especially ones that blog.
Knowing that this was a break through of sorts - a maturing of our relationship, if you will - I paused, carefully considering how I should proceed.
"OHMYGAWD! YOU TOTALLY JUST SAID 'SEX' OUT LOUD! I am so going to blog about this tomorrow!!"
And that was when my father ushered me quickly from their home with a pound of scones.
If anyone is brave enough to give me the details on the who, what, when, where, why and how much of a bidet, I'd be brave enough to listen.
Since my father is Australian, which is practically European French, I figured he would know all about bidets and how someone would, uh, navigate the use of one. But he got all prickly when I asked him and was all accusatory with his I don't know how to use one! I don't know what they are! Why would you look at me and ask that? which made me think maybe he had a bad experience with one and just didn't want to talk about it. Kind of like that time when I was 10 and overheard my mom laughing about how he accidently dipped in to the VICKS Vapor Rub to soothe his hemorrhoids thinking it was Vaseline and then told me not to say anything to my dad about hearing that because he was sensitive about the whole thing. Then she repeated the word sensitive and tried to stifle a laugh. When I was 17 and found out what hemorrhoids actually were I remembered the VICKS and suddenly that whole exchange was really funny! But it wasn't funny at all when I turned 28 and experienced hemorrhoids firsthand after the birth of my second child. There is nothing funny about hemorrhoids, y'all. Nothing.
"I just don't get bidets," I continued as the two of them stared at me. "As a woman you seriously expect me to drip while I hobble over from the toilet to the bidet? And then what? Water splashes and -- I'm still wet. How is that helping?"
At this point my father was looking at me as if I had escaped some sort of state institution. He tried to distract me off topic by announcing he made scones earlier in the day.
"I mean, isn't the point to make sure you're dry after you go to the bathroom. Like I'm going to want to walk around with drippage."
Chocolate Chip and also Plain scones.
"I just don't understand them. I don't get how people actually use them."
"Do you really need to know," my father muttered under his breath.
"Yes I do. I don't like not knowing how things work. I mean, is there no toilet paper usage at all? Do you just sit there waiting to drip dry?"
At this point my mother tried to salvage some dignity of the conversation by tactfully suggesting perhaps they were only used for after.... you know.
"When you poop? Well that would be worse. I wouldn't trust a bit of water to do the job. Unless it was a lot of water with a pretty good force."
"No, not that. The other thing...."
"What other thing? There's more than two things you can do?!" (This was certainly news to me.)
"No. After..." she looked to her left and to her right to ensure we were still the only three people in her kitchen. Lowering her voice to a whisper she said, "...after sex." Then yes, she actually threw her hands up to cover her face and giggled. Giggled, people.
There are two things I have never seen my mother do. And that would be giggle and say the word 'sex' out loud. In front of witnesses. Especially ones that blog.
Knowing that this was a break through of sorts - a maturing of our relationship, if you will - I paused, carefully considering how I should proceed.
"OHMYGAWD! YOU TOTALLY JUST SAID 'SEX' OUT LOUD! I am so going to blog about this tomorrow!!"
And that was when my father ushered me quickly from their home with a pound of scones.
If anyone is brave enough to give me the details on the who, what, when, where, why and how much of a bidet, I'd be brave enough to listen.
Comments
GREAT news about Mary Jo. A miracle!