It’s been a really weird couple of weeks. First the supermarkets ran out of toilet paper. Then school districts cancelled class. My cat, Maeve, learned how to open doors.

The most concerning to me was obviously the closure of schools (see last two posts). The most immediately pressing, however, was the toilet paper shortage.

Like most people I know, I buy my toilet paper one giant package at a time, and as my luck would have it, the supply was beginning to dwindle around the time the social isolation band wagon took off. I had heard of shortages in Australia, but this is Texas, people. Three weeks ago, I walked past shelves full of Charmin, and convinced myself that Americans as a whole are not dumb enough to buy out toilet paper. It’s pretty easy math, really. Say you have a family of four, and you buy two 36 pack of TP, with the intention of surviving a possible two-week lock down. That’s 72 rolls, divided by four people, which is 18 rolls per person. For. Two. Weeks. That’s more than a roll per day. What are these people eating that is wreaking such havoc on their digestive systems? Do they understand the daily recommended fiber intake amount? Are they the same people who bought out all of the bottled water instead of getting a Britta filter? They must be, as the need to use 1.3 rolls of TP EACH DAY sounds like dehydrating work. How wrong I was in my assessment of the average American, Dear Reader. Apparently 3^rd grade math is beyond comprehension.

Obviously, in my blind optimism, I did not buy a package of Charmin, Cottonelle, or even Quilted Northern, thinking they would be waiting for me to make my selections on my next weekly shopping trip. The hard reality that has dumped on me is that I have not even seen toilet paper for purchase since March 1^st. Gastrointestinal distress isn’t even a symptom of Corona Virus! The only connection I can possibly draw is that canned goods aisles are out of beans.

I was distressed. My fiancé and I were down to two rolls. There are just the two of us, we have two bathrooms, and we both consume vegetables. Those two rolls would last us around a week, a little more if we were careful. But I was sure that once we reached the cardboard tube, we would be up a very particular creek.

Think, Bri, I thought. Think a whole awful lot.

Do you want to walk around dirty or not?

That simply isn’t an option, so hey-

Why don’t we order ourselves a bidet?

Smarter. Not harder.

I was so pleased with myself. I knew I couldn’t be the only person with the idea, so I expected price hikes when I logged on to Amazon. Surprisingly, there were a plethora of affordable options. I browsed the available models and marveled at the selection available to me. It was certainly more than I expected, as America is not a country where one typically encounters that kind of bathroom luxury. The buttons. The hoses. The dials. The hot/cold options. I was dazzled. I assessed my situation. There were already rumors circulating that my school district would not be resuming after Spring Break, and I knew my income was likely to take an enormous hit. I sighed, bidding farewell to Amazon’s best seller, the Achiotely Handheld Bidet Toilet Sprayer. That just wasn’t $89.91 that I was willing to part with. I settled for the Luxe Bidet Neo 110, which is now sold out online. If my calculations were correct, it would arrive two days before we ran out of paper.

I placed the order.

It was an anxious three days, my friends, but it arrived earlier than expected. Charl was at work when I received the package notice, and I had been home doing nothing in particular for a little too long. I stared at the box, convincing myself that I was handy enough to install it. I read the instructions pamphlet. I laid out the pieces. I dug out my bright pink tool bag. I found a pair of rubber gloves, because even the cleanest of toilets can’t be trusted. And I got to work.

Step One: Turn off the water. This was easier than I had anticipated. Just the turn of a little knob right where the piping comes out of the wall.

Step Two: Flush tank till empty. Self-explanatory.

Step Three: Place a towel and/or bucket beneath the bits of plumbing to catch any water that was not flushed out of the tank. I opted for both.

Step Four: Disconnect water supply hose from the toilet tank. That sucker was on there tight. I rummaged around my tool bag until I found a wrench that would fit. I would tell you what kind it was, but the truth is I have no idea. It was the one that fit. I prayed that I wasn’t about to break the toilet in my rented apartment. I finally got it disconnected, and congratulated myself for having the foresight to employ both a towel, and a bucket, as the residual water was more a stream than a trickle.

Step Five: Attach the T-adapter to the toilet tank. This splits the water supply into toilet water and bidet water. It was difficult to screw it on, presumably because my upper body and torso were wedged very uncomfortably against the tub, and the cat would not stand for her exclusion. I screwed it on as tight as I could. When it could go no further, I figured, good enough.

Step Six: Attach water supply hose to T-adapter. Easy. I could have been a plumber.

 Step Seven: Remove toilet seat and place bidet attachment. I did so, sure to align each hole so that the screws would be easy to put back in. It was a quick success.

Step Eight: Attach bidet water supply hose to T-adapter.

This whole process had taken me perhaps 25 minutes. I made sure the bidet dial was turned to the off position, and slowly, slowly, turned the water supply back on.

Disaster.

The T-Adapter was leaking. Profusely. The cat had been a little too curious, and was now very annoyed to be a casualty in the spray. I turned the water off, and puzzled to myself over what could have gone wrong. I tried Reddit plumbing forums. YouTube installation tutorials. Both said that you just have to be sure that the T-Adapter is screwed onto the tank as tight as you can possibly get it. Trust me when I say, that thing wouldn’t budge. I Googled the phrase, “Am I just dumb?”

I turned the water on again, even slower than before, trying to identify where the water was actually coming from. It was coming from right underneath where a rubber seal was supposed to be doing its job, i.e. sealing the pipe from leaks. Another Google search. Ah hah. The rubber seal must be faulty. Problem, since it did not come with a replacement. I crawled away from my porcelain problem and slowly stood, weighing my options. I could email the company for a new part. No, that would take days. I could order one on Amazon. No, there would still be a 48-hour period where we were down a toilet, and that was not an option. Trust me, one of the secrets to a happy relationship is having two bathrooms.

That left a single option—the hardware store. Off I went. I found myself in the plumbing aisle looking at all the tiny parts and pieces, realizing that I absolutely could not be a plumber. I must have seemed dazed when an associate approached me.

“Miss, do you need help?” Firstly, I was very flattered to be called “Miss” instead of “Ma’am.” It’s been a couple of years since that was a guarantee, I had just spent the better part of an hour underneath a toilet, and I wasn’t wearing makeup. I knew how I looked.

I held up the T-Adapter, which I had disconnected and brought along for reference. “The rubber seal on this piece is broken and I need to buy a replacement. Am I just missing something?”

The mustachioed gentlemen took the part from my hands to examine it. He was befuddled. He glanced at me over his spectacles and asked, “Is this to split the water supply for a bidet?”

Obviously, and shouldn’t you be telling me? You’re the one who works here. Your name tag even says Plumbing/Appliances.

“Yes… Could you point towards a replacement? And maybe some Teflon tape?”

“Miss, I’m sorry to say that we don’t actually carry bidet parts in store. You can order it online though and it will ship to you in three days.”

I felt like a Slytherin 7^th year in the Sorcerer’s Stone when Dumbledore announced that some snot nosed, bratty eleven-year-old and his friends had broken a bunch of rules and had been rewarded for their shenanigans with enough points to steal the house cup. I thanked him politely as I could and left.

Back home I again browsed Amazon. I couldn’t pay for expedited shipping, they had already reserved that for essential items only. Fine. I ordered a replacement and fumed, having been beaten by the bidet. For now.

I will say that Amazon has truly spoiled us all, and despite the disclaimer that my part would arrive three days after I placed the order, it arrived the next evening. I must live close to a distribution center.

Determined to succeed, I again gathered my supplies. I covered the toilet tank extension with Teflon tape, and was delighted to see that this T-adapter had both a pressure valve, and a replacement seal, just in case. I screwed that puppy on as tight as I could get it, and then retrieved the wrench to screw it on some more. The porcelain creaked and moaned, but I persisted. I would not fail. When I was convinced it could go no further, I checked all the other connections to make sure there was no room for error.

Tentatively, I again turned on the water. I heard the pipes clank and rumble, refilling after two days sitting empty. No leak. I turned up the pressure just a tiny bit. Still no leak. A little more, and we were still dry—I turned the water all the way on, and rejoiced as water filled the toilet tank instead of the leak bucket below.

There was only one thing left to do. I stood back, and opened the door wide to accommodate Maeve’s continuous crying at the sight of a door anything other than wide open. I gently nudged her out of my way, her collar tinkling in vexation as she huffed away from me. This was it. I once again checked the connections, making sure everything was on nice and tight. I reached for the dial, but realized that it was likely set to full pressure. I turned the pressure valve all the way down. I set the bidet to one, and out came a pitiful stream of water, like the broken drinking fountain in the gym that none of the students are thirsty enough to use. I left the setting at one, and slowly released the pressure valve. To my great delight, in a moment we went from a sad little bubbler to the Trevi fountain. It had momentum. And it was glorious. Was the Hallelujah chorus playing in the background? Did a heavenly light shine down upon me? Would there be streamers?

Alas, only in my heart.

A few days later, we received a text from my in-laws that they had found toilet paper for sale early one morning at their local Kroger. It is now in our possession, but I am happy to say that for the two days we had none, our bums were squeaky clean.