Author: wvfurandroot

The Vertical Toilet Seat

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
I'm doomed.

I'm doomed.

Okay.

I’m going to get thrown out of the Women’s Union for this, but . . .

[taking a deep breath]

There is no truth to the idea that if a man leaves the toilet seat up, a woman sitting (unaware) on said toilet will plummet into the water and require (a) disinfection or (b) 911 emergency removal through intervention of the Volunteer Fire Department.

It’s not true. Women will not fall into the toilet. They will not get stuck.

Oh, I can see y’all flailing your arms around and motor-mouthing about the time Herbert left the seat up and you stumbled into the bathroom in the middle of the night and encountered the shock of toilet water on your derriere and had to be treated for frostbite as it was the dead of winter during an ice storm on a windswept bluff in Duluth.

It never happened.

Now. Contrary to popular (mis)belief, feminism is not about the subjugation and derogation of men. Feminism is the idea that women and men should be treated equally in the attainment of life’s goals and everyday experiences. Now I don’t let men get away with bashing women drivers or labeling us all irrational. I’m not going to let the womenfolk perpetuate this urban legend about the vertical toilet seat. I am a feminist; one who will not, no matter how long the seat is left up, fall into the toilet.

I’ve done a lot of research on this as well as some personal experimentation.

The average toilet seat with tape measure verification.

The average toilet with tape measure verification.

Now then. The average woman’s pelvis is somewhere between 14 and 16 inches in width (dependent on if you’re measuring the top of the pelvis or the bottom) – that’s just the bone. If you add in varying amounts of muscle, fat (including the despised cellulite), and skin, the average woman is 17-19 inches in width and that’s not even allowing for the curvature of the buttocks or water retention.

The average toilet opening is 11 inches.

Do the math.

[Note (in the interest of full disclosure): While I bristle at the average label, those measurements apply to me. I used a cheap tape measure after a glass of wine, but I stand by my methodology. Since I’m generally described as slim-hipped, I think we can go with these especially since I don’t fall into the toilet bowl – slim hips and all.]

Now, I wondered if it was possible for someone with an especially droopy form of fat on their hind-end to make contact with the water. The average toilet allows between 6 and 8 inches between the rim of the bowl and the surface of the water. It’s generally true that fat spreads before it dangles.

In the normal of act of sitting on the toilet, the buttocks would relax, spread and any dangly fat would depend over the outer rim of the toilet. [I tested it, but will not be supplying photographic proof.] I suppose one could push and wedge the fat into the toilet bowl, Even so, it would have to droop more than half a foot to settle into toilet water. [And really, isn’t that a bit far to go to perpetuate this urban legend?]

So. I submit. This nonsense about imperiling one’s life should Mr. Man leave the toilet seat up needs to stop. It’s not true and generations of men have been nagged to death about it (to no avail).

None of this, however, refutes the idea that men have terrible aim. I mean, really, guys – how hard can it be? You manage to get golf balls into tiny cups from some distance, you can slam dunk a basketball, and you can carry the oil pan without spilling it all over the garage floor, but you can’t hit an 11 inch oval of water from a distance of 18”?

Now, men? I’ve done you a great favor by exposing this myth. While we may not fall in, we do not want sit in your piss. Put the seat down please. (I’m not nagging, I’m asking nicely.)

Late Summer Suppers

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
Feng Sushi

Feng Sushi

It’s 10:15 and I just finished eating dinner.

I love late summer suppers.

This time of year, I’m too busy in the garden after work to think much about food (or laundry or housecleaning or bill paying or much of anything). When the sun starts slipping, I settle into the lawn chair with a glass of something and ponder the universe until the solar lights come on.

It’s about then that it occurs to me that I’m hungry.

My childhood was punctuated by late summer suppers. I inherited the after-work gardening gene from the folks. We ate late from about March to October. Daylight hours were spent outside.

In 1973, my father went through a spell where he was determined to perfect his spaghetti sauce – we all thought it was already perfect, but he wasn’t satisfied. We had spaghetti every twelve minutes or so. Fortunately, we liked spaghetti.

Daddy did this and Daddy did that – the sauce got better and better. But it also got later and later. As a starving teenager, by the time plates were set on the table, I was ready to chew on the formica.

That spaghetti – hot summer day cooling into a nice evening, sweat drying, ice tea glasses dripping, and the mosquito coil sending up spirals of smoke – digging into a steaming plate of perfect, tangy pasta with even better garlic bread – Lord, it was good.

The fullness of a heavy pasta and the exhaustion of an active day, the contentment of a good meal when ravenous – all of it engendered a sense of well-being that no psychotropic drug can mimic.

Today was hot. I’m making a point of trying to remember to eat, so on the way home from work, I stopped at the Kroger for something light. I ended up with California roll sushi, melon, strawberries, and Merlot. I also procured my father’s birthday cake – in this case, cheesecake. I ate dessert first (by several hours) and just now finished dinner.

We’ve all read that slogan – eat dessert first! I never do. But tonight? Tonight, I did. It’s a fine way to ingest the daily calories.

As I sit here thinking about 1973 and the following years, I’m awash in memories of all the late summer suppers I’ve had – at tables, on decks, at campsites, in restaurants. The joy of eating seems maximized in the summer – vegetables and fruits are fresh, the iced tea is cold, and, after the sun goes down, coffee is a miracle.

A few years ago, there was the naked lobster dinner. Last year, there was the rooftop North African dinner. Two weeks ago, there was the steak dinner (with art) on the deck.  I’ve had roasted venison by campfire, grilled trout by candlelight, and hamburgers under a yellow, bug light.  Dessert has been s’mores, cheesecake, a mango, and, on one memorable occasion, banana splits sitting on the side of a hill watching interstate traffic outside of Morgantown.

I love late summer suppers.

Tell me about yours.