My weekly excursions to Home Depot with my mother are typically mundane, often involving urgent hardware needs that are somehow perpetually deferred. This week’s mission? Toilet seats. Yes, plural. Apparently, a slightly yellowed toilet seat and a genuinely broken one were deemed unacceptable for potential (and imagined) scrutiny from houseguests. “I don’t want your friends to come here and ask why our toilet seat is yellow,” she declared, setting the stage for our hardware store pilgrimage.
Our Home Depot trips follow a predictable pattern. A suggestion to go, followed by a near-instantaneous postponement due to fatigue, illness, or geographical inconvenience. But yesterday, the universe conspired against our procrastination. Having successfully avoided any productive activity for days, I ran out of plausible excuses. Reluctantly, we embarked on the short drive to the orange behemoth of home improvement dreams.
Stepping into Home Depot is always a sensory experience. The air is crisp, the dominant hue is aggressively orange, and the staff is wonderfully diverse. Immediately, the toilet seat quest began.
“Where do you think the toilet seats are?” Mom inquired, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space.
“Bath aisle, I assume,” I replied, navigating us towards the general vicinity. “They probably avoid the word ‘toilet’ on the signs, lest customers think they’ve stumbled into an actual bathroom showroom.”
We were met with an aisle that resembled a bizarre art installation – rows upon rows of toilets, mounted like porcelain trophies. It was a scene straight out of a surreal cartoon, a modern art museum, or perhaps a glimpse into a future where urinals are obsolete. Finally, we reached the toilet seat section, a dizzying grid of suspended white thrones.
“Do they even have different colours?” I mused, overwhelmed by the sheer uniformity.
“Let’s ask,” Mom asserted, already pivoting towards a nearby employee who was tidying shelves. I braced myself.
“Excuse me,” Mom began, her voice polite but firm. “Do you have different colours of toilet seats?”
The “Toilet Seat Salesman,” as he shall henceforth be known, was a middle-aged man who seemed to have mastered the art of retail placidity. “We mostly stock white,” he stated, gesturing vaguely. “Though we do have a beige option over here, as you can see… For a wider selection, our online store is your best bet.”
“Thank you,” Mom responded, ever polite, before launching into the real interrogation. “Now, can you explain why this toilet seat is $76, while the one we picked up over there is only $18? What exactly is the difference?”
The Toilet Seat Salesman, unfazed, launched into a practiced explanation. “It’s about quality. The plastic in this American Standard model is superior because… well, it’s simply higher quality.” His reasoning was as circular as the product he was selling.
Mom, ever practical, pressed on. “We need a toilet seat that won’t break or discolour easily. What do you recommend for longevity?”
“Kohler is a classic choice,” he declared with newfound conviction. “Plastic is definitely better than wood. Paint peels right off those wooden seats, guaranteed within ten years!”
I leaned in to Mom, whispering, “Can you even get microplastics from a toilet seat?” The absurdity of our toilet seat deliberations was reaching its peak.
Ignoring my existential question, the Toilet Seat Salesman continued, “And avoid Glacier Bay. Those are much thinner, not as durable.”
At this juncture, Mom produced our secret weapon: the old toilet seat lid, discreetly (or so we thought) concealed in a white plastic bag. Like a detective at a crime scene, she began comparing it to the display models, holding it against various seats to assess the fit. Armed with a tape measure, I joined the investigation, meticulously measuring different seats. Other shoppers, observing our elaborate preparations, couldn’t help but glance nervously at their own, clearly feeling inadequate in their toilet seat purchasing strategies.
“They’re all the same size…” Mom declared after a thorough examination. “You know, I think we’ve spent enough time contemplating toilet seats.” Indeed.
The Toilet Seat Salesman, sensing a sale, chimed in, “I can see the Kohler is similar to your existing model. A solid choice.”
“Kohler it is,” Mom decided. “Let’s grab some doormats and escape.”
Doormats were acquired with surprising efficiency. But as we navigated towards the checkout, our path was intercepted by a spectacle that stopped us in our tracks: Home Depot’s Halloween display. Towering figures loomed – clowns with menacing grins, skeletal figures, witches brandishing broomsticks, a zombie dog, and an enigmatic “Dean the Deathologist,” a short green figure whose purpose remained delightfully unclear.
And then, we saw him. Standing tall and imposing, a 7.5-foot animatronic plague doctor. This wasn’t your average spooky decoration. This was a statement.
“What’s that for?” Mom asked, genuinely perplexed. “A decoration? Oh, it must be for Halloween already.”
“What’s it saying?” I wondered, drawn in by its macabre presence.
We edged closer.
The Plague Doctor, in a raspy, synthesized voice, boomed: “Come closer, and I’ll rip you apart.”
Mom recoiled slightly, then chuckled. “He’s saying he’ll rip us apart!”
“It says there are three different sounds!” I pointed out, noticing the product description.
Suddenly, the Plague Doctor lurched violently, colliding with the clown figure beside him, sending it swaying precariously.
“He hit the clown!” Mom exclaimed, clearly impressed. “Wow, I want it. We could put it in our front yard all year round.”
“Even after Halloween?” I questioned, picturing our suburban streetscape adorned with a year-round plague doctor.
“We could decorate it for Christmas, and all the other holidays!” she envisioned, undeterred. “Everyone would come to see it!”
“I’m not sure the neighbours would appreciate that,” I countered, imagining neighborhood association complaints.
“I like the plague doctor the most,” she reiterated, her gaze fixed on the figure. “He even has a bag… Such a nice bag… Is the bag included, or is that extra? And why does he even need a bag? What’s he carrying? It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I admitted, equally baffled by the plague doctor’s accessories and purpose.
“I wish I could buy it,” she sighed wistfully. “But $277 is too much. I’d pay seven dollars. Maybe even 27. But not 277—that’s unreasonable.”
“Remember the seven-foot papier-mâché fish we got for free last time?” I reminded her, attempting to put the price into perspective.
Reason prevailed, and we decided against the plague doctor. We paid for our toilet seats and doormats and began the trek to the car, parked a block away. The toilet seats, awkwardly boxy, wouldn’t fit in bags. So, we juggled two new toilet seats, the old toilet lid, and three doormats down the street, nearly dropping the relic toilet seat on an unsuspecting husky. The thought of adding a seven-foot plague doctor to our load was, frankly, terrifying.
“Hmm,” Mom mused as we walked, “I really liked how that plague doctor kept saying he’d rip you apart. Maybe $277 isn’t that unreasonable… What if you bought it for my birthday?”
The husky owners, still within earshot, gave us a second, more concerned glance. We reached the car, unceremoniously tossed the toilet seats into the backseat, and began the drive home.
“Where’s that license plate from?” Mom pondered, spotting a car ahead. “California?”
“Can’t see it from here,” I replied. “Should we tailgate them for a closer look?”
“We don’t want to run them over,” she cautioned, ever practical.
“Oh, it’s Saskatchewan,” I announced, finally deciphering the plate.
“Do they grow weed there?” she wondered aloud. “Or hemp? I know Saskatchewan is a big lentil producer. But marijuana, I’m not sure.”
“The plate says, ‘land of the living skies’,” I noted, appreciating the poetic license plate slogan. “I like that.”
“Me too,” she agreed.
We drove in comfortable silence, our minds buzzing with images of plague doctors and living skies. It had indeed been an unusual afternoon.
“I’ve been trying to write a blog post about Harvard,” I confessed, changing the subject abruptly. “But I’m struggling to find something interesting to say.”
“About Harvard?” Mom repeated, slightly bewildered.
“Yeah, about my first year. I wanted to write something before I go back.”
“What ideas do you have so far?” she inquired.
“That I don’t like it,” I stated bluntly.
“That doesn’t sound like a very positive blog post,” she cautioned. “And they might take back your tuition! Your 150 followers—or is it 200?—someone will tell Harvard what you said. You’ll be in trouble.”
“Hmm, good point,” I conceded. “Well, maybe I’ll write something about the Home Depot instead.”
And perhaps, about the unexpected allure of a certain animatronic plague doctor.
