Has anybody been doing anything more interesting than watching poker tournaments on television? I’d be willing to bet you have. In fact, I’m pushing in all my chips on that one.
Me? Well, when I’m not busy attempting to help my daughter with her homework, I’m watching some sort of poker show.
Apparently, poker is my new religion. I’ve become quite evangelistic about it. I frighten people with my enthusiasm. I smile brightly and ask strangers, “Have you found Texas Hold ‘Em? Do you have poker in your life, my child?” Two months ago, I was the same way about knitting. I still knit sometimes while I watch poker shows. At those moments, I am as close to Nirvana as ever I shall be.
But enough about poker. Let’s talk about toilets.
You may recall from some of my previous posts that my husband, Michael, is no plumber. That may be the understatement of the year. I’m well aware that we’ve got a couple more months before the end of the year, but let’s keep that statement in mind anyway. It’s gonna be a tough one to beat.
Anyhoo, we have two toilets upstairs and one downstairs. The one in the hall bathroom had been broken for six months, but it was still usable. The problem was that once you flushed it, it would take almost half an hour for the tank to refill. Inconvenient, yes, but we lived with it. Then, this past Wednesday night, the toilet in the bath that’s off the master bedroom broke. It wouldn’t stop running, and Michael had to shut the water off to it. Fine.
So, the next day, Michael decides to fix the one in the hall. What could go wrong?
Ed. note: If this blog were a suspense thriller type movie, you’d hear eerie music as soon as I posed that question.
So, he and Charlotte head upstairs. She’s going to help him fix the toilet. They are both overly confident and cheerful.
Cue more eerie music.
Shortly thereafter, Charlotte comes back downstairs. “Mom, do we have any plastic cups?” Barely resisting the urge to scream and run out the door, I shakily reply, “Yes.” I ask no questions.
I hand her the cups and she is gone again up the stairs.
Five minutes later, she is back. “Mom? Do we have a bucket?”
Once more I resign myself to live in complete denial of whatever is going on in that bathroom, and I quickly locate a bucket for her. This time, however, I do quietly ask, “Is everything OK?”
As soon as the query is spoken, I regret having asked it. I pray for vagueness in her response and am relieved when she says only, “Sure Mom. It’s gonna be fine.”
Ten minutes later, they are both back downstairs. Michael says, “Congratulations! Now that toilet is completely broken. We’re calling a plumber.”
So, I call a plumber.
But, the story doesn’t end there.
If you’ll come back around tomorrow, I’ll post the conclusion to this little installment along with an intriguing tale that the plumber swears is true.
PS – Sorry I haven’t been writing lately or keeping up with what’s going on with everyone else. I’ve just been busy with other things, and in my spare time, I’ve wanted to do nothing that requires any effort whatsoever. Even if I did feel like writing, I had nothing to write about. I’ve had a splinter in my foot for about three months. I could’ve written about that, I suppose, but aren’t splinters infinitely more interesting when they are stuck in your elbow or something? I always thought so. Anyhow, hope all is well with everybody.