I've never minded the smell of urine. Lucky me.

Growing up, I was lucky enough to have my own bathroom. It is attatched to my bedroom as it used to be the master, before previous owners added on. The house was built in the 1960s, and when I commenced habitation in my bedroom circa 1996, the plumbing was old.

It wasn't a fancy bathroom, but it served its purposes. It had a cheaply made sink, a shower that was too hard to turn on and off, and a towel bar that never remained attached to the wall. It was the best bathroom in the world. As I got older, I spilled blue nail polish on the linoleum. Luckily I was able to get most of it off with acetone remover, but that consequently ate a hole in the varnish in the surrounding area. The paint started to peel off the walls too. Well, maybe peel isnt the right word, more like fall off in chunks.

Anyhow, by far the best part of my bathroom was the toilet. Something inside of it hated me, and it constantly would refill the toilet bowl when it didnt need it. I rarely shut the door to the bathroom, so its hissing was an ever present echo in my room. My father would often try to fix it himself, whether he thought a certain valve or washer needed to be replaced, he did it himself.

After a few years of the on again/off again broken toilet and many unsucessful attempts to fix the annoying sounds, my father finally found the answer. It lay in some rod inside, and replacing it would also mean replacing of the geometric ancient gold toilet handle. He invited me to go along with him to Home Depot, promising to let me pick out the new flusher. I was terribly excited at the idea, as any 13 year old would be. I imagined already picking out the coolest one, one that when, upon first glance, you were awestruck at the uniqueness of the handle. One that made you say, "Now that is the way to flush a toilet in style."

Needless to say, I was dissapointed when I soon realized that Home Depot did not carry the flusher of my dreams. My dad found the piece he needed quickily and stood behind me while I stared at my options. Plain ones, fancy ones, handles of every metal color imaginable. All too boring. Nothing was good enough. Then, I saw it. It was in a package different than the rest. It was a square shaped silver button. Not a handle exactly, but it would do the same thing right? And who else had a toilet with a flush button in their house? No one I knew, thats who! I would be the first, the best. My friends would marvel at the sight, that I knew. I had to have it. Though seemingly reluctant, my father purchased it along with his items. I helped him install it as soon as we got home.

Those first few weeks of toilet flushing was heaven. I forced the few friends I had over to use my bathroom, rather than the one in the hallway just so they could try it out. "Neat," said one. "Cool," reported another. "I bet thats gonna get annoying," my ever cynical friend Jill told me. I ignored her, in favor of the button. It was mounted on the upper left side of the tank, a silver beam of uniqueness and originality, a constant reminder to myself that it took a special kind of person to have a flushing button.

Soon after, the feelings wore off. The button was slightly inconvinient. I mean, with a handle all you do is push it downwards for like, a second. The button required more effort. I had to hold it down for at least a few seconds, quite a feat when one isn't used to it. Also, the sheer strength needed to flush it required the palm of your hand, or at least a very strong thumb. It was also nearly impossible to flush while actually sitting on the toilet. A courtesy flush just wasn't an option, though it was my own bathroom. I couldnt tell anyone. I had been so proud of my button; so insistent on getting it that I couldnt let anyone know that I have begun to regret my decision.

I grew to hate the button. It had beat me. It was too hard to flush and took too long when I finally put forth the effort. I started to pick up a few tricks to deal, much like one does when working with a difficult co-worker, or training a wild animal into a pet. I would do my business, get up, and start to wash my hands. Because it was such a small bathroom, I could soap up and rinse my hands, while at the same time maneuvering my right knee onto the button, lean in, and viola! I could flush the toilet with ease! After that trick started to put bruises on my knees, I nearly gave up. I picked up the motto, "If its yellow, let it mellow." Accordingly I also lived by, "If its brown, flush it down."

Then I got lazy. I would let it mellow for far longer than I should have. It started with a flush every two visits to the toilet. Gradually, the flushings got fewer and farther in between. Hours turned into days. I would intentionally "brown" in any other bathroom but my own, so I wouldn't have to battle the dreaded silver button. What had once been a shiny beacon of hope had turned into an evil eye, glaring at me, teasing and taunting me at every use. I hated it, and when I pushed it the water rushed and it began to sound like evil laughter.

Years of this abuse went on. Jill would still come over, and she learned quickily that I rarely flushed my toilet. She would criticize me, much like my mother did everytime she went in there. It was horrible.

Last year, when the paint finally chipped and peeled and fell and the sink leaked and ruined the floor, my parents decided to save me from my tormentor. They decided to remodel two of the bathrooms, mine included. Everything was ripped out. Shower, sink, even that towel rack that never held towels. It was long overdue in my opinion, but worth the wait. I now have a beautiful bathroom. The shower is easy to use, the sink has a pretty bowl set in a dark wood cupboard, but best of all is the new toilet. It never runs when it isn't supposed to, and when you look up to the top left corner, a shiny silver handle rests peacefully waiting for the next person to flush with next to no effort. The demon was purged from my bathroom, and never have I ever been so glad to have the exact same accesory as everyone else.