We have a powder room in our house — in other parts of the country I’m told they’re called “guest baths” (there’s no bathtub in there, but go on, bathe in the sink, swirl your hair around in the toilet like my father-in-law used to do in his 9th St. walk-up).
Our powder room used to have a high-up louvered window, which made Brian nervous. “It’s going to leak,” he said. He felt justified in his worry, this house has been cursed by leaks — we had to replace all three exterior doors because every time it rained we had genuine ponds-ful of water coming over the thresholds, and don’t get me started on the plumbing. Every single goddamn sink has leaked, plus our shower dripped a bulging hole into the family room ceiling below, and the other bathroom had, among other things, reversed hot and cold taps and hot water running into the toilet, which made the toilet nice and warm to sit on but also melted the wax seal around the toilet’s base and caused more pond-like leaks.
Whoever plumbed this house was a chimp.
This high-up louvered window in the powder room, however, was doing fine, in my estimation. It was old, but old things have charm!
Brian, however, is a modern man who likes to get ahead of things, and he had already arranged for a local glass company to swap out some other windows, so he asked them to replace the powder room louvered window with a nice solid piece of glass that would never, ever leak.
Solid glass, as you may know, will let in light but will also prevent the exchange of air (or rain or mist or the poisoned miasmas that do unfurl from time to time) between the inside and outside worlds.
When you live with three men and are the caretaker of three litter boxes, it is crucial to be able to neutralize deadly fumes at their source. So I reminded him, “That louvered window is the only ventilation for the powder room.”
He’s not a dismissive guy, but he felt pretty confident on this one. “Let’s try it and see,” he said.
I’m conflict avoidant so I was all, okay, let’s see how it goes. Maybe he’ll be right!
Reader: we need a fan in that powder room. Whatever bombs go off in there get trapped, and trapping them only makes them grow stronger. Pepe le Pew ribbons of mustard gas regularly sneak out under the door and turn the air in the hallway into something that violates Geneva Convention protocols.
And no one else has said a word about it. I know for a fact that I’m not the only person with a working sense of smell. I think I’m the only one who, God forgive me for the pun, gives a shit. Women are socialized to hide their smells and men are socialized to celebrate them. “Oh, that’s a good one,” they laugh when what they’re smelling is, in fact, very bad indeed.
I put two bottles of room spray on the back of the toilet — orange and peppermint. Maybe this will help! I thought. This was two months ago, and both bottles are as full as the day they arrived in a CVS bag.
I know this is a simple thing that could be nipped in the bud with a house meeting, several frank discussions, or a call to someone (electrician? handyman?) to install a fart fan.
But see above re: being conflict-avoidant. So I’m thinking of putting a framed needlepoint over the toilet tank instead.
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Amazon sells, it should come as no surprise, a lot of “live love laugh”-style signs that address most facets of bathroom etiquette. If I wanted, for example, a picture of a skeletal hand holding a wad of toilet paper surrounded by the words, “Your butt napkins, my lord,” (for real) my search would be over. But I do not, I will not, and I cannot.