How I Came to Own a Glorious, Glorious Bidet

Years ago back when I had around seven Twitter followers I made the following joke.

You know what commercial you never see during late-night tv? A family owned urinal/bidet store offering 0% financing for three years. #fb

— ThoughtsFromParis (@tfpHumorBlog) April 2, 2010

Not one person liked or retweeted it. Which is fair because it’s not my finest one-liner. But back then I was thinking a lot about bidets and urinals. I mean, none of us have ever seen a bidet or a urinal inside an American home. Now, to be fair, bidets aren’t commonplace in America. But urinals are. In fact, men find urinals in almost 100% of bathrooms that have a specific “men’s” room. That’s an odd ratio. 0% of American homes have them, and 100% of “men’s” rooms do. And urinals are superior to toilets. Well, for peeing. Not for #2. They’re clearly inferior if you need to move your bowels. But for urination, they’re the better option. Just ask any wife who has to clean the bathroom floor once a week. Men are gross and we have terrible aim. And since I live alone, when I stumble toward Johnny Crapper at 3am still half-dreaming about a leggy blonde, I choose to sit rather than stand. It’s practical. And I vow that one day I will install a urinal in my home – one of those waterless jobs from Sloan. Classy, functional, and environmental. But this essay is about bidets, not urinals.

I have two dreams. Martin Luther King only had one, but I’m an over-achiever. One I just mentioned (urinal in master bath). The other is getting a bidet installed in that same bathroom. Now, the dream of owning a bidet is unusual for a few reasons. Most notably, is that I have used a bidet exactly once in my life. It’s not like I grew up on the DuPont estate where I assume they had bidets in every water closet. I only encountered this magical appliance one night in Paris when I was eighteen. Paris is the city of love, and fall in love I did. Then, as in a typical Parisian-American romance, I bid my French porcelain lover adieu the next morning and hopped a train to Italy. While the bidet didn’t come running down the platform shouting my name as I looked out the seat window, I’m sure she would have had she not been bolted steadfastly to the hotel bathroom floor. Technically the noun “bidet” is masculine, but I think whoever decides what is masculine or feminine for the French language made a mistake. That device is all woman. And I knew her touch. It was tender. Also thorough.

I have not been back to Paris since that original visit twenty-two years ago. While I’ve traveled to other countries, I’ve failed to secure a hotel fancy enough to provide a luxurious bidet. I’ve been in dozens of bathrooms with heated floors (yawn), or six-nozzle shower heads (double yawn), or phones right next to the toilet (who’s calling me in my hotel room, anyway?), but never one with that cleaned your fanny for you. Oh, I never got back to the “I had two dreams thing” mentioned earlier. Let’s do that. So I have a bidet now. Like right this very second.

Well, not a true bidet. Mine is an attachment with controls that sit just to the right of the toilet seat. In France bidets are a separate appliance often located next to the toilet. You do your dirty business in the toilet first, then waddle over to the bidet where it cleans out the remainder of your dirty business. I have neither the room noor the plumbing requirements for two devices in my bathroom. Thankfully egghead scientists have combined these two appliances into one. A bathroom mash-up, if you will. But instead of combining Led Zeppelin with horrific dance beats, it’s a perfect union of symbiosis.

If you’re not familiar with the functionality of a bidet, let me provide you with the most direct explanation I can muster. It shoots water (you choose the temperature) up into your hiney after you poop. This water cleans out that area perfectly, and without having to reach for the Charmin. As a man, I can only speak to this one application. My understanding is that a bidet does other things for women, but I’m not a woman, and that whole area is complicated and confusing to me. I think it washes out the front, but I didn’t get to that part in the manual yet.

Since I have only encountered a bidet once (and over twenty years ago at that), I wasn’t sure if my memory was reliable. I’m one of those people that romanticizes the past. If a woman dumps me, months later I continue to see her as a perfect being. “But she nailed the milkman several times a week for two years while you were at work!” my friends remind me. So, I can’t entirely trust this one-off memory, but I was confident that I had recorded it correctly in my hippocampus. The way I remember it, that sole experience I emerged from the bathroom a new man. A content man. A man with the cleanest backside that side of the Rive Gauche. And with a matching smile to boot.

To install this device I needed to enlist the skills of a tradesman. The instructions claimed I could do the install myself in twenty minutes. And, to be fair to my masculinity, I tried. But due to the positioning of the toilet, it would have required me to unbolt the bastard and I’m not that confident in my plumbing skills. I was able to get the water hooked up correctly, but then it started leaking all over the place. I took to Craigslist, where only the finest contractors that have no license or insurance are abundant. The guy I hired (we’ll call him Greg because his name is Greg) reeked of stale whiskey when he arrived fifteen minutes later than our scheduled appointment. While a bit bleary-eyed he did seem to know what he was doing. “I’ve installed probably fifty of these bid-dits, you see! Go ahead and toss the instructions. I don’t need them.” I decided not to correct his mispronunciation, but I held onto the instructions just in case. He had quoted me $75 and promised it would be done in twenty minutes.

Two hours and three trips to Home Depot later, Greg announced he was finished. He called me into the bathroom to demonstrate its use.

None of this is exaggerated. He really went to Home Depot three times in two hours.

If this next scene was written into a slapstick comedy script, it would never make it past the first draft. What I’m about to share with you is way too obvious and the only joke you can make with a new bidet. But it happened. Like a guy who slips on a banana peel and falls into an open manhole, Greg did the one thing anyone who’s installed even one bidet in their history should know to not do. He faced the toilet and said, “So, you turn this knob here to start the water, see?”

And with that, the bidet sprayed him, full blast, right in the face. In his open mouth. Water ran down his chin and into his denim shirt. It took him a full two-mississippi to turn the dial to “off.” I didn’t dare laugh because I felt bad for him. He just got sprayed in the face with hot toilet water. To be fair to Greg, it was fresh water from the tap, the same we drink from, but still. I’d love to say that it didn’t happen a second time two minutes later, but it totally did. I was examining the connections, making sure nothing was leaking behind the toilet. I put my hand where I thought the water would hit, to block it from shooting out of the toilet. I turned on the bidet and the stream shot past my hand and directly onto Greg. He was standing in the same spot. He had his mouth closed this time, so it only further soaked his face and shirt. “Sorry,” I said to Greg. He shrugged.

I ended up giving Greg $125 which he seemed to appreciate. We said our goodbyes and he left. Five minutes later I was seated ready for my own maiden voyage upon this new vessel of the sea. Would it be as glorious as I remembered? I said a prayer to Saint Zita who the Catholics call “The Saint of Cleanliness.” I’m not a Catholic, but she’s not that well-known as a saint and probably appreciated the spiritual fist bump. And with that I evacuated yesterday’s brisket.

But instead of reaching for the toilet paper I reached for the bidet controls. Damn! I should have tested the temperature ahead of time. I decided on a moderately warm setting and hoped that my dial was accurate. I turned on the spray and let the bidet do its thing. I had to adjust my posture as the the first blast hit the upper part of my left cheek. Once in position I felt the power of the bidet at work. I have no idea how long you’re supposed to sit there, but I figured you can’t really over-do it, so I read an article about probiotics on the NY Times mobile site. Seemed apropos. After two minutes I had finished the article and turned off the nozzle. My rear felt wet, but, well, it felt clean. It was time for the acid test. I now reached for the toilet paper.

While my intention is never to gross out the good people who visit this site, I’m pleased to announce that the paper came back unblemished. I grabbed some Scotch tape and reaffixed it to the roll as it was in perfect condition to be used again. Okay, that’s not true. I threw the paper in the toilet and waved goodbye as it circled the drain. I made a vow to never again use toilet paper. Well, unless I happen to go to the bathroom anywhere other than my own bathroom. Then, I’ll use it like I did before. But I’ll be frowning. I’ll judge the homeowner for not having a bidet installed. I could have sent Greg over to install it, and let’s face it, he needs the work.

So, one dream realized, one to go. The urinal will happen, but I’m in no major hurry. I mentioned it to Greg as he was leaving. He paused, thought for a moment, and then said, “That would be awesome, man. I can do that. I’ve done a ton of those.” He was lying, but I appreciated the support.

photo credit: OneEighteen Duchamp at the Venice Guggenheim via photopin (license)

photo credit: libertygrace0 Cleaning the Bathroom 1970’s Style via photopin (license)