It’s just a few more days until my children return from Europe.  They went there with 185 of their closest friends to tour with the Oregon Ambassadors of Music.  There have been no international incidents so far so all is good.

I fully expected to turn on the NBC Nightly New with Brian Williams to hear Mr. Williams say, “The Eifel Tower was toppled today by siblings from Bend, Oregon.  Parents of same have been deemed ‘Worst Ever’ and were recently discovered deceased due to Shame.  And now for the latest on Michael Jackson: He’s still dead.”

Without the kids here Beloved Spouse and I have been living large.  We got the carpets cleaned.

Seriously.

It took five and half days to get the house ready and I have already declared I will never do it again until we move and I hire someone else to do it for me.  We also bought a new sofa to replace the one the kids destroyed.

Our teenagers are not unusually destructive.  They’re just...teenagers.  This generation is quite different from us Baby Boomers in that they actually sit on the furniture.

Most of us Boomers came from houses that contained one ugly couch.  We only had one couch and it was ugly.  It was uncomfortable and wrapped in plastic and since we were keeping it nice for company we were forbidden from sitting on it.  There was really no point in trying to sit in that everyone had televisions that required you to get up and walk two to three steps to turn the channel.

Instead we hovered.  Our generation hovered over everything.  We were never allowed to completely sit on anything but especially not on public toilets.  Ask any fourth grader back then and they would tell you sitting on public toilets caused venereal disease, pregnancy and tattoos.  You know it’s true.  Look at someone who is covered from head to toe with ink, has hair dyed colors not of this world and has piercings in places we would really rather not  know about and you know, you just know; they sit all the way down on public toilets. 

That’s why the previous generation didn’t live as long.  The human thigh is not built for lifelong strain and sooner or later, the muscles snap and plop, there you go, down on the public potty and you get a case of Fatal Cooties and die.  Also, everyone you know dies of Guilt by Association but especially your mother.

Before our kids left for Europe, we all spent a week in Portland while they went to band camp to prepare and rehearse.  Everywhere we went (and by that I mean “went”) had automatic toilets.

Well, who do I thank for this wonderful invention and yes; I am being extremely sarcastic.

You go into your stall, place seven or eight liners on the seat because you know one is never enough (I’m looking at you--people who drip) and you proceed to do your business.  As you’re sitting there, you notice you have a small dirt smudge on your shoe and you bend over to rub it off and suddenly your nether regions are being sucked out to the ocean to find Nemo. 

It is not, repeat; NOT, a pleasant experience.  It surprises and irritates me each and every time and it is only through extreme self control I do not express my frustration by beating the sensor with my purse. 

After recovering from the shock, I go ahead and finish the planned activity but then I have to fake out the automatic toilet into thinking I left and someone new came into the stall so it will flush at the proper time.

I’ll wave my hand in front of the sensor, walk in a circle, hang from the door, duck and do any number of things that are even more humiliating until I finally give up, go out and tell everyone in line the toilet is out of order. 

At which point it immediately flushes.