So, my toilet seat broke.

I could blame my fat ass, or my roommate’s fat ass, but I think I’d rather just blame it on the ten-year-old toilet seat.

For some reason, purchasing a new toilet seat is a humiliating experience.

I’m not sure why this is.

Everyone uses them.

Well, everyone I know, anyway, but I live in a suburb of Boston, not in the back woods of Kentucky. (I have no fear of insulting anyone here. I mean, if you don’t have a toilet, odds are you probably don’t have a computer either. I’m just saying.)

So, I wandered around Wal-Mart, for God knows how long, looking for the toilet seat section. Never in recent memory having actually purchased a toilet seat, I had no idea where to look for them. 45 minutes (and $80 worth of merchandise) later I ultimately found them in the “Bathroom Décor” section, which confused me. Placement in this section seemed to imply that a toilet seat is merely a decorative accessory and something you could comfortably live without.

I must disagree with that.

Without the toilet seat, you basically have a porcelain hole filled with water.

Though I am quite adept at the hover, I don’t think it is something I would care to practice in my own home. I think a toilet seat is something that is a bit of a necessity.

It should be in the “Household Must-Haves” section of Wal-Mart.

So with my toilet seat in hand I storm off to the cash register. All I can picture is running into everyone I know whilst lugging a packaged toilet seat around with me.

That didn’t happen, however.

So I got home and immediately changed the toilet seat.

Let me just say this about that.

It is not a difficult job, but it is certainly a gag inducing one.

I managed to suppress the urge to vomit, cleaned the bathroom, replaced the seat, cleaned the litter box and did some other random cleaning around the house when suddenly  I looked down at my hand and noticed this big red scratch.

I have no idea at which point in my cleaning activities I scratched my hand.

Was it when I had my hand behind the back of my toilet tank? Or when I was wrist deep in cat urine?

I freaked out and ran my hand to the sink like it was on fire yelling, “Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!” as I scrubbed it with soap and prayed that I was not too late to save the limb.

Ok, maybe I overreacted a tiny bit.

I am the queen of random wounds, after all.

None of them have killed me yet … though none of them have been infected with human waste and cat urine before either.

Maybe I should invest in some rubber gloves.