The Old Apartment

We drove past our old apartment earlier today and saw our former toilet out on the curb.

We had lived at the same residence for 10 years before we were kicked out 12 months ago to make way for a 55+ community. (My husband is old but, in this case, he wasn't old enough.)

Ten years is a long time to spend with a toilet. I suppose you could say we have history with that commode.

I couldn't help but reminisce. I remembered when I had food poisoning and, for the first time, experienced simultaneous multi-port ejection. I remembered the time hubby sat on that very toilet during a bout with an intestinal virus and yelled, "I'm dying!" My response gave birth to a catch phrase we still use to this day. "Are you really dying? Or do you just think you're dying?"

I remembered the countless arguments over whose turn it was to clean the damn thing. "I cleaned it the last two times." "Oh, so we're keeping count now?" "Hell, yes we are!"

Ah, good times.

I've seen many curbed toilets in my lifetime, yet I never once stopped to think about what that particular chamber pot meant to its owners? Was it used to potty train the kids? Did the oldest son pray to the Porcelain God the first time he broke into dad's liquor cabinet? How many books and magazines were read in the ecoli-brary? It's amazing how a filthy appliance can put life into perspective.

It makes me want to rescue our old toilet from the sanitation workers and perhaps turn it into a lovely planter like the trashy people do down south. At the very least, I'm tempted to sit on it one last time just to have my picture taken...fully clothed, of course. (FYI: We cleaned it thoroughly before we moved.)

Maybe we should just stop driving by the old place. I shudder to think what we'll see next.

Here's the Barenaked Ladies singing the song I get stuck in my head each time we cruise past 412 White Horse Pike.