What luck! I find a hanger, return to WC clothes hanger
, and commence surgical dismemberment. Bit by tiny bit, the weak rill of their low-flush toilet washes away pebble-sized morsels. Flush, wait, cut, flush, wait, cut. It took ten goes to get the thing done. By now about forty-five minutes had gone by clothes hanger
and they had surely heard the many flushes. "Is she mad, your girlfriend?" I imagined them asking my boyfriend. "Or merely an American? Or is that synonymous?" And I imagined his reply: "Ooh, these Americansare hygiene-mad, ya know. Can you imagine, they have more bathrooms in a house than people!"
After ten flushes, and with a sense of triumph, I finally completed the operation, only to discoversomething awful: I had badly scratched the bowl clotheshanger
with the hanger. Apparently I'd been too vigorous a cutter. Scratches everywhere. Couldn't miss 'em.
Now what? Do I say something to the hostess? Apologize? Take the offensive and complain about her lousy loo not flushing a fly? Pretend all clotheshanger
was well and that I always shit sharp metal? Or do I bolt out the door and flee, never to return? Also -- what in HELL do I do with the hanger?
I rinsed my blade in the toilet and contemplated my clothes hanger
options before deciding to open the window and toss it in the yard.
Just as I'm about to raise the sash, there's a knock. "Honey, are you all right?"
It's him. Brit boyfriend. I hide the hanger behind the toilet and open the clothes hanger
. There he is, the picture of inebriated concern.
I decide, on the strength of a few months' relationship, to come clean and present him with the truth and my dilemma regarding the scratched porcelain.
A mistake. He could not believe I was unable to flush it -- he'd never had a problem. What on earth was I thinking, in someone else's house yet, rummaging through a lady's closet? All this was uttered in the intense, occluded stage whisper of the Brit whose main concern in life is not to be overheard.
It was in that moment that an epiphany occurred: shit tells. If he couldn't handle my shit, then this relationship was going nowhere. But I was going somewhere. Home!
I'm sure he and his friends get together at the local pub and reminisce. "Hey, remember that American girlfriend of yours, who scratched up our porcelain? We had to buy a new one and all!"
