“Hey! What baboso left the toilet seat up?” Chabelita yelled from the bathroom.
The house was full of kin of all ages, men and women. It was cold and dark outside the day before Christmas. The house was small and crowded, and it had only one restroom. And it had been getting steady use all afternoon.
Nobody responded to Chabelita’s protest.
Minutes later, she was out. Not satisfied to let it go, she paced back and forth in the living room eyeing her suspects.
“Was it you Tudy? They taught toilet you manners yet?” she interrogated her teenage cousin.
Tudy didn’t say anything.
“You Jody? You’re always desmadroso,” she accused another young cousin.
“No,” Jody protested.
“Everywhere you go you do desmadres,” Chabelita chided him.
“Pos I didn’t even go into the restroom yet,” Jody said.
Chabelita kept pacing.
A half dozen accusations later, her elderly aunt spoke up.
“Ya, pues. Arriendate. It was me who left it up,” she said.
“You, tia?” Chabelita said incredulously.
“Why you siding with the men—and boys.”
“Not siding with anybody. Just used to be that the restrooms were outhouses, and the seats hid black widow spiders,” the old woman said.
“You picked up the seat to make sure a spider wouldn’t creep up on you when you sat down.”
“Oh,” said Chabelita, completely arriendada.
