Toilets and women

When I was a child, my parents divorced when I about 18-24 months old and my father died shortly there after.  We were living in Los Angeles at the time, and mom decided, after the divorce, to return to her hometown of Chicago.  It is the city that I claim as my hometown, and have extremely fond memories of Cubs’ games and Black Hawks’ hockey.

When we moved back to Chicago we moved in with my mother’s mom, or my grandmother.  Grandma, while having been born in America, was, in my recollection, an “Old World” woman.  She spoke Polish when she was with her sisters or pissed at someone.  She loved to cook the foods of the old country, some of them were things that I wouldn’t feed a billy-goat, but she loved them.  She could be both the sweetest and toughest woman on Earth, and I think all of her sons-in-law and a daughter-in-law had an innate fear of her disapproval.  But, being the dutiful mother, she took my mom and I in when we returned from LA.

We lived in a three bedroom flat, with Grandma taking the front bedroom that faced the street, mom in the middle bedroom and I had the little one off the kitchen.  There was a short hallway that connected the dinning room to the kitchen, and off the hallway was the bathroom.  Houses and apartments built before WWII generally had one bath and the tiniest closets.  By today’s standards most of the closets would have been considered nothing more than a broom closet, and having one bath would seem barbaric.  The bathroom had one of those old cast iron tubs with the claw feet, and had to be at least five feet deep and ten feet long (when you’re a little kid everything looks bigger).

When I was about five, I remember it was before I was sent to military school, I had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and then went back to bed.  Since my room was right off the kitchen it was only a few steps away from the bathroom.  This enabled me to hear when someone headed to the loo.  I’m not sure what time it was, but I remember hearing someone’s footsteps padding to the bathroom and the door closing.  The next things I remember is the sound of my grandmother’s voice cussing up a storm, going from English to Polish and back, and my name being mentioned.  The door of my bedroom flew open, and there stood my dear grandmother, soaked from around the waist down.

Seems that when I had used the toilet I had forgotten to put the seat back down, and grandma didn’t bother to check before she sat down.  Her rear hit the water, and she hit the ceiling.  That was the day I learned that boys (and men) ALWAYS need to put the seat down if there is a female living in the house.  This is a habit that is now so ingrained in me, that even if I am living alone I still put the seat down.  There is something that deeply affects the psyche when one sees one’s grandmother standing in the doorway of your bedroom soaking wet and really pissed.  I wonder if that’s why I ended up in military school?

So guys, if you live with a female and you don’t want to have to endure an hour’s worth of castigation, I would recommend always putting the seat down when you are done.  I know some people will say, “Why can’t they just put the seat down?”  They can, but it is much easier on you and your living arrangements to put the seat down.  If you don’t, you might end up in military school.


About Joseph Ordower

I'm a middle aged, some would say curmudgeon, who is sick, tired and truly frustrated with the way things are going in a country (America) that he loves, honors and respects.
This entry was posted in Family, Humor, Personal history, Relationships, Thoughts on life and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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