The Seventy Five Dollar Banana.

Our friend S. was over last night and informed us that he could tell which of our children had last used the half bath (meant for guests, but my kids don't really get that), because there was a magazine opened to an article about Speedracer, an unflushed toilet and toilet paper on the floor. Aren't children precious? That's not as bad as what I found there earlier that day: a half finished cup of coffee and the same magazine, opened to an article about The next Narnia movie.

Speaking of my husband, he does have some strange bathroom habits. When O., our oldest child, was a baby I was home with him one day when the toilet overflowed. Believe it or not, I get a certain joy out of plunging a toilet. My dad and I once had a conversation that probably went on a little too long about the exhilaration one feels when the clogged toilet first makes that little suction sound after plunging. You know you're only a few moments away from a clear toilet and that your vigorous plunging efforts were not in vain. I have a whole system for plunging, which I'll be glad to explain, but not demonstrate. Anyhow, our toilet overflowed and, try as I might, I could not plunge it and, trust me, I have serious plunging skills. I called A. at work, seething with suspicion.

"What did you put in the toilet? I know you put something."

"What? The...uh...our toilet? Put something in it? Umm...nope, not a thing."

I knew he was lying, but his response to my assertion that I was going to call a plumber (who I would have to pay out of our then very meager funds) sealed the deal.

"Listen, I'll come home and wait for the plumber. Why don't you take the baby to the mall or something?"

My husband was and is cheap extremely thrifty. That's one of the things I love about him; I know we'll never starve. We had absolutely no disposable income then and he was telling me, a known impulse buyer with a credit card, to go to the mall. And he who never took a day of vacation was offering to come home from work in the middle of the day so I could do it. He hung up before I could tell him he was welcome to come home, but I was sure as he** going to stick around and see him humiliated by the plumbers.

He arrived mere seconds after I hung up the phone. We waited together for the plumber and I pretended I didn't notice as he paced the floor and chewed his fingernails, all the while trying to convince me to just go to the mall.
When the plumbers got there, it was clear that they, like any wife, could smell bullsh**. They looked both of us in the eye and asked for a confession. I knew I was innocent and met their gaze with confidence. My husband, on the other hand, said something like,

"At this point in time, no, I did not put any object in the toilet, herein, at this place in our home, in which I reside at this time. No, your honor, I do not believe that I put anything in that toilet that, in fact, did not belong there. I do not recall, it is certainly possible that...no object was placed in an inappropriate manner in any way by myself into that toilet."

Did I mention he's a lawyer? Just imagine a court reporter reading that one out loud. Don't you think he'd be a tiny bit better at lying? It was pathetic and we all looked at him in silence while he sputtered, still refusing to admit what he had done. The work began.

The plumbers plunged, more vigorously than I could ever dream of doing. They snaked. They used equipment that I've never seen before. Every now and then, they looked back at my husband, daring him to confess. He did not.

Just before the moment of truth, they gave him one last chance to confess. He started to reassert his innocence, but thought better of it.

"I might have put a banana peel in there."

He looked at his feet and we all looked at him with disgust at his ignorance. To this day, I regret what I did next. There are certain things that one never, ever needs to know about another person.

"Why, honey, just why would you put a banana peel in the toilet?"

We lived in a small apartment. The kitchen and garbage can therein were just steps away.

"Well, I was sitting there eating my breakfast and when I was finished, I just dropped it in. I thought because it was food that it was okay."

As if the words weren't enough, he did a vague physical impression of his actions. Multi-tasking is great, but is it too much to ask that one eat breakfast at a table? Or even standing at the kitchen counter? I almost felt sorry for him. The plumbers looked away, appalled. We've moved twice since then and, even though my husband still feels the sting of humiliation*, we use the same company. And they remember the banana peel. Apparently, my husband is a legend in the plumbing world, because one of the new guys told me he had heard about it. I am so proud.

Namasté, y'all!

* Mostly because I insist on telling the story over and over again.