Tank Sweat

I live in an interesting town.  One where I have inadvertently purchased a granola bar for $6.50.  Where I pick up my prescriptions alongside Chevy Chase (no, I am not amused that we seem to be on similar amounts of medication).  And where I have a toilet that can only be properly flushed by sticking one's arm up to the elbow into the uncirculated tank water and manually taking care of business.  At first, we went through the formalities of removing and then replacing the porcelain cover each time, keeping the facade of powder room normalcy alive.  No need.  For weeks now, the cover has sat the way we preferred, askew on the bathroom counter.  What a pity we don't regularly entertain heads of state.  But the raw, industrial look just doesn't work in our 1960's center hall colonial.  Just recently it was decided that our toilet should finally move on to plumbing supply heaven.  We only have to wait a few weeks for its replacement.  Wait?  I meant hold it.