You’re not going to believe this, but this is a story about a toilet seat.

When I moved into my sweet little Portland apartment two years ago, one of the only things wrong with it (aside from its square footage, or lack thereof) was the toilet seat lid.

Reader, it was stained.

I tried all sorts of cleansers, starting with the nice hippie juices that are considered good manners on the west coast, and moving along to bleach and sandpaper and begging.

But my poor little toilet seat lid, it still looked awful.

Its stains, they brought to mind unpleasant things.  Things I don’t want to think about when I’m brushing my teeth.

Things you wish you weren’t thinking about right now.

It bothered me every day for two full years.

Since I’d tried all the cleansers, I finally concluded that the only thing left to do was MOVE.   

Don’t judge me.  My mind is a little broken.

But then one day I had a brainstorm!  Which coincided with a visit from my father!  Who is not afraid of hardware stores at all!  (Unlike me.)

I thought maybe we could paint it.  So I asked St. Dad, who regularly plumbs the innards of computers and pulls out vaguely intestinal pieces, if he would help me.  Since obviously he is made of sterner stuff than I.

St. Dad said he would.

But then he came home from running errands and announced that he didn’t think we needed to paint it after all.

“I think it looks fine,” he said dismissively.

“It is NOT FINE.  It is stained.  It looks gross.”

He was unmoved.  “I think it looks fine.  You should go look at it.”

“I am not going to go LOOK AT IT, I am getting READY for a BIRTHDAY PARTY, and I ALREADY KNOW that it looks awful!”   (Party prep makes me anxious.)

He shrugged.

Hours later, after the party was in full swing, I finally stopped pouring lemonade and refilling chip bowls long enough to have a Meditation For Mothers.  Also known as going to the loo.

As I flushed and turned to wash my hands, my eyes caught a dazzling brightness.  I beheld an angelic visitation right there in the bathroom.

My toilet seat and lid were glossy.  Shiny.  White.  Unstained.  Brand new.

My jaw dropped.

I went and collared my dad.  He grinned.

“Turns out, you can just buy a new one and replace the whole thing.  Took about two minutes.”

Left to my own devices, I would have complicated the process with screwdrivers, newspapers, paint, paint brushes, and copious tears.  Or else, dear reader, I would have MOVED.

The moral of the story is, it’s good to ask for help.

If there’s a small tangle in your life that seems so defeating that the only way out is to move, or quit, or change your name, it’s a good sign that you need to bring in an expert consultant of some sort. 

I recommend my dad.

And if you ever come to my apartment, be sure and peek into my bathroom.  You just might have an angelic visitation in there.