thediastema's Diaryland Diary

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The Ten Commodements, 'cos I can withstand no more of this crap!

Master, I still believe my datebook will come strutting in the front door any minute, smelling of cheap perfume and weak beer. He will grovel at my feet for another chance to manage my schedule. He will beat his fists on the floor and sob while I stare, coldly, straight ahead at my parents' Wallace and Gromit wall calendar.

~~

I slept through my voice lesson today. VT and I are even, but we owe Accompie big time.

~~

There is a serious toilet paper problem at my house and I'm really beginning to lose it.

It started when we, in a brave, headlong leap into the not-all-that-industrial world, purchased a spindle for it, having previously made do just picking up the roll and unwinding away like a preoccupied seamstress with a hapless bobbin.

The spindle, in the tradition of other really important inventions such as the wheel, the cotton gin, the Pill, and the EggWave, revolutionised our world as we knew it. Now, one had a choice between doing toilet paper things The Right Way and doing things The Lazy-Ass Way.

This, in and of itself, was not unprecedented in the washroom. My parents and sister had been presented with many previous tests, and failed them all:

"From whence does one properly squeeze the toothpaste tube? Mum?"

"The top."

"No. Dad?"

"The centre."

"No. Sis?"

"You want me to say the bottom, but that's fascist."

"What do you do when you accidentally knock my contact case behind the sink to lie underneath a stockpile of wastebasket liners and a filthy toilet plunger? Sis?"

"Leave it sitting there, 'cos I like to break and misplace things."

"No. Mum?"

"Deny, deny, deny!"

"No. Dad?"

"You wear contacts?"

"Final round: what are nice things to leave in the washroom when you yourself are not occupying it and using them for whatever sick rituals you perform that are none of my business? Dad?"

"A five-year-old disposeable razor caked in rust to make a huge cut in the tip of your right ring finger while you dig around the basket in your night-blindness for fresh SensorExcel cartridges?"

"No. Sis?"

"My unmentionables from pre-shower in the middle of the floor?"

"No. Mum?"

"I'm gonna phone a friend."

"Okay, whom?"

"Your sister."

"Your fune'. Go for it." Howevermany seconds they give 'em on the clock:

Ring ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, non-underachieving and morally clean daughter. What's a nice thing to leave in the washroom when... that dumb thing underachieving and morally-unclean daughter said a minute ago?"

"Big, metre-long, nasty, circulation-destroying pieces of my hair."

"Thanks."

"Going with that answer, Mum?"

"Yep. Your sister never makes mistakes."

"I'm sorry. You're all nuts."

Toilet paper, however, has been a particularly maddening struggle. Somebody, and I have no decent means of deducing whatbody, is always placing the TP on the spindle in the wrong direction. What sense does it make to feed away from the user? Seriously? Even Dad's left-handedness is no grounds for this kind of dyslexic tissue storage.

A little thing, you say? A LITTLE THING?!

Yeah, I thought so, too, the first seven or eight hundred times I rolled my eyes, swallowed my pride and fixed the feeding direction.

But the next time I used the washroom, unfailingly, somebody would have switched the roll back to the anarchistic and logically-unsound reverse position.

Is it just one of them screwing with the potty feng shui? Is it two rebels, a neutral, and me? Or are they all nursing some bizarre genetic predilection that, like musical aptitude, noisy footsteps and dark colouring, skipped directly over me?

Then there's the other thing. The Pontius Pilate potty paper problem. It's like this:

To their credit, everybody in my family seems to recognise that common decency (the paradoxically-rare kind that truly is common) dictates that whoever uses the last of the roll has to exchange it for a new one, even if that last square of two-ply is just enough to handle the task at hand (shut up; I mean be it lipblotting or whatever). It's basic good form to replace the roll for the next in queue anyway.

But we're Erin's nuclear family and, while we certainly don't want it on our heads that we didn't switch to a fresh roll, we also hate to go to the trouble of actually doing the switching. What will wash our hands (and really, everybody, ALWAYS wash your hands, okay?) of any responsibility in this matter?

Leaving half a square of TP on the roll. Technically it's not empty, and that'll be enough for the next one along, who can do the changing herself, 'cos she's our freak albino firstborn, Erin! Right?

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. WRONG. WRONG!

That is perfunctory lavatory tab-fucking-oo. If you're going to leave the roll on the spindle, there'd better be at least three layers going all the way around or there's gonna be a scream shrill enough to crack the commode in two, COMPRENDE?

I'm not going to waste time on the math to support this, but be it known: there is no room in the toilet for doing things half-assed. Okay? Everybody take heed.

~~

This educational programming was funded in part by the perverts who make The Foley Catheter. The Foley Catheter: the juice is loose!

~ETK

03:21 - 30 May, 2001

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