Toilet seats are a total scam.
That’s right.
The hinges on two toilet seats in my house broke at the same time.
Coincidence? I think not.
I am well familiar with the razor blade business model.
Gillette charges you ten bucks for the Mach 3 Turbo, then three times that for a pack of blades.
And they do so in perpetuity.
It’s pretty genius, actually.
But toilet seats?
“Just get new ones,” my wife says.
Why? The seats are fine. It’s just the hinges.
I go online.
Let’s see . . . Bemis toilet seat hardware and accessories . . .
(Who the hell names a company Bemis, by the way?)
Amazon has replacement hardware, of course.
“Fits all Bemis models,” it says.
Sweet.
I order two sets. Costs me nineteen bucks.
Five days later, they’re on my doorstep.
I go to the bathroom and hold up one of the packages to the toilet seat. I want to make sure everything lines up before I open it.
Nothing lines up. Not even close.
Now I want to write an Amazon review that calls bullshit on the whole “Fits all Bemis models” statement.
Of course, I’m not. Who actually takes the time to do that?
So besides two broken toilet seats, now I have to figure out what to do with this toilet seat hardware I don’t need.
Return it? That takes effort.
Shove it under my workbench with all the other hardware I’ve bought and don’t need?
Probably.
So, my next move is to actually go to a hardware store.
Before I do, I take a bunch of pictures and measurements.
I’m getting it right this time, dammit.
I drive to the Ace Hardware down the street.
“Can I help you find anything?” asks the friendly dude in the plumbing section.
I show him the pictures of the toilet seat on my phone.
And hope he doesn’t think it’s weird that I walk around with toilet seat pictures.
“Uh-huh . . . okay . . .” he says after looking at the pictures for a few seconds.
He walks me over to the toilet aisle and starts looking around.
“Yeah,” he eventually says. “Didn’t think so. Sorry.”
They don’t have toilet seat hinges.
So now I drive to the Lowe’s twenty minutes away.
I find the toilet guy there and show him my pictures.
“How old’s that toilet?” he asks me.
I don’t know. It’s probably original to the house. Almost twenty years, maybe.
“Oh, well . . . there you go,” he says, getting all uppity.
“Just buy a new seat,” he says.
Because he makes a better commission on the seats, I assume.
I know what’s up.
Screw him.
I drive to The Home Depot another five minutes away.
This time, I find the toilet aisle by myself.
No way am I getting up-sold by another toilet-seat-pushing clown.
They have toilet seat hardware.
But do they have the right toilet seat hardware?
I consult my photos and measurements. And I find what appears to be exactly the right set of hardware.
Two packages set me back thirteen bucks. That brings my total sunk costs to thirty-two dollars.
Plus time and mileage.
I go home and walk straight to the bathroom.
I unscrew the seat from the toilet and remove the broken hardware.
Then I rip open one of the packages, certain I got the right stuff.
I lay the new hinges on top of the toilet seat.
And discover the screw holes don’t line up.
Shit.
I did it again.
So, I get in my car and drive back to The Home Depot.
I return the hinges and go back to the toilet aisle.
I find exactly the same, stupid Bemis toilet seat I already have and grab two of them.
That costs me another forty-two dollars for the pair.
My grand total for this toilet seat adventure climbs to seventy-four bucks.
Plus time and mileage.
I go home, bolt the two new seats in place, and toss the old ones in the trash.
Now, I don’t love the idea that those perfectly good toilet seats are going to sit in a landfill for the next thousand years.
But I’m done.
And I’ve learned my lesson.
The next time I have a broken toilet seat
I’m moving.