"What?" I almost spit out my coffee. "How did that happen?" The holder is bolted onto the side of the cabinet, and the cabinet is made out of one inch plywood.
Actually, I know how it happened, or, at least, I can put two and two together. It was Dad. Godzilla may have lumbered through downtown Tokyo knocking down buildings, but Godzilla's got nothing compared to my Dad.
So when I ask my wife how it happened, I'm not really looking for an answer. I mean, I know how the toilet roll holder got broken, but my wife is kind enough to give me an answer anyway.
"Dad says that the house cleaner is rough on the stuff, and she probably pulled it out."
I raise one eyebrow at her. I look in the direction of my father. He's in the great room. Watching baseball. His favorite pastime. In other words, he's ignoring our entire conversation. If my wife were to whisper to me that she was going to Sam's, he'd beat her to the car, but this particular conversation is of no interest to him.
"I'll check it out," I tell her.
"Dad!" my wife calls out to him. For some reason she wants to include him in on this. I've learned that it's sometimes better to not to confuse my Dad with too many facts. Do what you need to do first, and then apologize, if you have to, after. "Dad!"
"Huh...what?" my father says, one eye on the TV.
"Dad, we're going to go into your room to fix the shower rod and toilet holder."
(What? The shower curtain rod, too?)
"You're going to fix what?" he asks.
"We're going to fix the rod and toilet roll holder in your room."
This information doesn't even deserve one eye's worth of attention from him.
"Yeah, that house cleaner is rough with the cleaning. She pulled it out. She broke off the holder by cleaning too hard."
"Maybe it wasn't her," I chime in.
"Yeah, it was her."
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
"Maybe," I say, slowly. My wife knows I'm just teasing my Dad, but she still gives me a cut-it-out look. My wife gives me good advice. And I usually come out ahead when I follow it. Too bad I never do. "Maybe she used your toilet, and, when she got up, she used the toilet roll holder for support, and her weight broke it off the cabinet."
"She'd better not be using my toilet," he warns.
"I'm not saying she did, but if she's gotta go, she's gotta go."
"Well, she'd just better not be going in my toilet."
"Okay, Dad, okay," I tell him. He's starting to get agitated at the thought of our maid using his toilet, so I back off a little to let him settle down.
"I know, Dad," my wife helpfully adds, trying to distract him from the image of our maid sitting on his toilet seat--the closest he's ever come to having sex with another woman since he met and married Mom. "The house cleaner broke it."
I get up, and go into his room. I check it, and I find two large holes on the side of the cabinet where the toilet roll holder should be. This holder was installed to stay put and not come off. I did my investigation, and it was just as I thought, my Dad was sitting on the toilet, and, while he was getting up, he probably used the holder for support, and his weight pulled it off the side. Trust me, I watch CSI.
So I fix the rod--again--and reinstall the holder. And then I have an idea. I run it past my wife, and she agrees.
"I don't want bathtub handles," my Dad tells me. He's firm about it. "I'm just fine. I have no problem getting out of the tub."
"But, Dad," my wife says, "they'll make it easier for you to get in and out of the tub."
"I don't need them, and I don't want them. You'll be wasting your money."
"Pop," I lie, "we're installing them in our bathtub, too."
"Well, I don't care if you need handles to get in and out of your bathtub, but I don't."
"Dad," we both say, but it's no use. His mind is made up.
"You don't need to install it. I'm telling you, I don't need the handles."
And then one day my Dad goes to Sam's with my wife. If you think it was some kind of grand plan to get him out of the house for a few hours, you'd be right, and I take the opportunity to install them. When they come back, my wife comes in, looks at me, and I give her a little nod.
"Dad," she tells him, "guess what? We installed that bathtub handle you wanted. Isn't that a nice surprise?"
My Dad's confused for a second, and then he says, "But I didn't want bathtub handles."
"Well, we just installed it in case you need to use it. You don't have to use it, but it's there just in case."
"...well, I don't need it..."
Months later, my Dad tells us how much he likes the hand support. "You should have installed it long ago." And, you know what?
The shower curtain rod hasn't fallen since.
Raising My Father
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