Bidet, Mate!

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Abstract

det, yourself! it seemed to reply. C’mon, sissy. Take me for a spin.Eventually curiosity got the best of me. Time for a test drive. I positioned my posterior on the seat and studied the gearshift lever warily. I hadn’t driven a four-on-the-floor since I learned to drive in my dad’s old Maverick. Presumably the unlabelled dots on this gizmo ranged from low to high, or maybe from “Tickle” to “Turbo.” Cautiously I shifted into first. A jolt of icy water nailed my right cheek. “It’s COLD,” I yelled, jumping clear.“The warm-water model cost more,” my guy hollered from the hallway. “I got us the redneck version.”I glowered at him through the closed door, then glanced back at the offender.You fall off a horse, you get back on, it sneered. Don’t be a wimp.Wimp or not, I wasn’t about to turn the other cheek. Instead I decided to search the Roadster’s reviews on Amazon. Surely I wasn’t the only dissatisfied driver.To my surprise, there were some glowing testimonials. Sprays right on targ

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et! enthused a reviewer who’s clearly a better operator than yours truly. Didn’t splash my dangly bits, he added, clearly relieved.Most complaints came from homes with high water pressure. Feels like a firehose on your fanny, grumbled one drenched customer. Don’t dial up too fast or you’ll power-wash your privates, warned a survivor who claimed to be suffering from PTSD. More like PTTD — post-traumatic TUSH disorder — I thought. I was glad I hadn’t geared up to Turbo.While I continued to give the bidet a wide berth, my guy could barely contain his enthusiasm. “I feel Springtime-Fresh!” he’d tell me every time he took the Roadster out for a spin.“I don’t care if daffodils are growing out of your derrière!” I shot back. “I’m sick of that thing smirking at me every time I tinkle. Park your jalopy elsewhere.”Happy wife, happy life. The Roadster has been relocated to the seat in the guest bathroom. If you visit, you are warmly invited to “have a blast.” Well, not warmly. We got the redneck version.</article></body>

Bidet, Mate!

Potty Talk for the Post-Apocalypse

Photo by Judy Millar (Author)

When the Covid-19 crisis hit, panicked shoppers sought safety behind the flimsiest of fortifications: toilet paper. Never one to follow the hoarding herd, my guy rushed out to buy . . . a bidet.

“TP is passé,” he announced as he unpacked the portable manual unit. “Why wipe, when a quick whoosh of water can bathe our back-ends?”

An hour later our run-of-the-mill bathroom throne was pimped out with a side-mounted seat attachment. A sort of stick shift for our ceramic Roadster. Take a seat, it beckoned. Enjoy a car wash for your booty.

I’ve driven through a few car washes in my day so I was in no hurry to experience a deluge “Down Under.” Still, that Aussie thought had me calling out a cheery “Bidet, Mate!” every time I was in the Roadster’s vicinity.

Bidet, yourself! it seemed to reply. C’mon, sissy. Take me for a spin.

Eventually curiosity got the best of me. Time for a test drive. I positioned my posterior on the seat and studied the gearshift lever warily. I hadn’t driven a four-on-the-floor since I learned to drive in my dad’s old Maverick. Presumably the unlabelled dots on this gizmo ranged from low to high, or maybe from “Tickle” to “Turbo.” Cautiously I shifted into first. A jolt of icy water nailed my right cheek. “It’s COLD,” I yelled, jumping clear.

“The warm-water model cost more,” my guy hollered from the hallway. “I got us the redneck version.”

I glowered at him through the closed door, then glanced back at the offender.

You fall off a horse, you get back on, it sneered. Don’t be a wimp.

Wimp or not, I wasn’t about to turn the other cheek. Instead I decided to search the Roadster’s reviews on Amazon. Surely I wasn’t the only dissatisfied driver.

To my surprise, there were some glowing testimonials. Sprays right on target! enthused a reviewer who’s clearly a better operator than yours truly. Didn’t splash my dangly bits, he added, clearly relieved.

Most complaints came from homes with high water pressure. Feels like a firehose on your fanny, grumbled one drenched customer. Don’t dial up too fast or you’ll power-wash your privates, warned a survivor who claimed to be suffering from PTSD. More like PTTD — post-traumatic TUSH disorder — I thought. I was glad I hadn’t geared up to Turbo.

While I continued to give the bidet a wide berth, my guy could barely contain his enthusiasm. “I feel Springtime-Fresh!” he’d tell me every time he took the Roadster out for a spin.

“I don’t care if daffodils are growing out of your derrière!” I shot back. “I’m sick of that thing smirking at me every time I tinkle. Park your jalopy elsewhere.”

Happy wife, happy life. The Roadster has been relocated to the seat in the guest bathroom. If you visit, you are warmly invited to “have a blast.” Well, not warmly. We got the redneck version.