The butt grunge had been quelled! I reigned victorious! And we all lived happier and less grossed out lives ever after.
How to Fix a Repulsively Stained Toilet Seat When You’re Too Lazy to Leave the House
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We moved into a new apartment a couple of months ago, and one of the first things I noticed was that the toilet seat on our new-to-us toilet was old, worn, cheap, and ugly. My own butt balked at the sight of it.
It was likely once a uniformly white seat, but its outer layer of plastic had softened over the years, becoming pitted and yellowed and unattractive. No matter how much I scrubbed that damn thing, it looked like something you would find abandoned in a backwoods outhouse.
My parents-in-law were coming into town for a visit, and while I washed towels and made up their bed and swept the floors, I could not get this stupid toilet seat out of my head. I grew up in an era when toilet seats were a big deal. There were toilet seats in pink and green and yellow to match the colorful toilets of the 1970s. There were toilet seats with pictures of skunks holding their noses on them. There were padded toilet seats. There were toilet seat covers made out of fluffy chenille. Battles between the sexes were waged over whether the seats were left up, left down, or dribbled upon.
I was a woman obsessed.
Of course, though, when I say obsessed, I mean that in a very limited sense. Something had to be done about the toilet seat, but I do not have a car, because cars equal extra stress to me, so I couldn’t drive to a store that sold them, and I was not about to shell out my hard-earned money for a taxi to get one. I may have been overly occupied with the condition of our toilet, but I was not moved enough to expend too much energy getting a new seat, so I scanned my apartment for solutions.
Bleach? We were out of that. White house paint? I imagined it sticking to my mother-in-law’s butt, which was arriving in less than an hour. Sandpaper? We had lost that in the move. And then I was hit by SHEER BRILLIANCE: we did not have sandpaper, but we had knives.
Like a skilled plastic surgeon, I took the sharpest blade I had and shaved that toilet seat’s imperfections down. I chiseled off the yellowed, cracked, pitted, and stained plastic from the surface of our commode’s seat, taking care not to gouge it further. The softened plastic peeled off in revoltingly soft curls that only the cheapest of aged apartment toilet seats could offer. It felt like I was removing years of other people’s butt grunge. Yummy.
Rarely have I felt so satisfied.
Minutes before my parents-in-law arrived, I finished my domestic master work, flourishing the knife over the last of the seat’s edges. While the toilet seat did not gleam, it at least no longer repulsed.