Plumbin'; Or Jack the Dripper!

The house is old.

“Hey, I hate to say this,’ she says, “but there’s a bit of water in the basement.”  The tenants upstairs are leaving as I am coming home. 

There had been an absolute deluge the night before, and there’s nothing like a 124-year-old house for water in the basement after a storm, so I take the information with a grain of salt.  I pull out one of my earbuds.  “No worries,” I say.  “I’ll take a look.’

“Well,” Susie worries, “I’ll be back in a couple hours if you need any help.”

Help?  I think.  Have they seen me?  Do I not give off an air of self-sufficiency? Nay, of common sensical ability?

I jam my earbud back in, go directly to the basement. 

It is a reasonable basement, if not a bit dank at the moment; and last year’s cobwebs, having been swept from the exposed ceiling, have been replaced by new ones.

Two hours later, still in the clothes I wore to work, the cement floor, while damp, is cleaner than it’s been since, oh, the last big rain.  And yet – why is there still water?  I have been listening to a podcast about crime in Merry Old England, and I’m just coming to the realization that there seems to be water leaking from under the washer when –

“PEARL!”

And though in hindsight what I heard was most certainly “PEARL!”, what I understand it to be at the moment is “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

I leap into the air.

Kurt has come down the stairs.  “Don’t you hear that?”

I pull both earbuds out.  “I don’t hear anything,” I said.  “I’m busy wet-vac-ing all this water…”

He makes a face.  “But don’t you hear the water?”

And then I do – the spray of water that has burst from a hose behind the washing machine.

“Well,” I laugh, “that explains why I can’t quite finish up!”  I follow the pipes to the shut-off valves, and the spray falls to a steady drip that no amount of tightening will help.

The plumbers have been called.  And I am still alive.

You Don’t Own Me, Dishwasher

I’ve had it with that dishwasher.

Not the guy at Nye’s, even if he does pretend not to know English for “fork” and laughs at my attempt to remember the Spanish for it. 

I refer to that machine wedged under my kitchen counter.  The one with the helpful demeanor.

I’ve never had a dishwasher before.

“You should use it,” Kurt says.  “It’s like a machine.  That washes your dishes.” 

So I did.  You might not know it to look at me, but I’m pretty amenable.  You want me to use the dishwasher?  Sure.  Why not.

But the dishwasher, she mocks me. 

‘Baked on,’ I think to myself, pulling a pan from the rack.  ‘Sparkling, but encrusted.’

I scrape.  I rinse.  I do everything but actually wash them before I have them washed.

And yet, every now and then, there it is:  the pot in which I had mashed the potatoes, the fork I had neglected to massage clean. 

I can get this kind of abuse anywhere.

So I’ve returned to the sink.  It’s winter here in the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and a basin of hot water has its appeal.  I stare out the window at the house next door and think about spring, think about my Grandma’s hands in the sudsy water, think about having discovered that yogurt and kiwi turns into a bitter, inedible mess overnight.

Every day, people.  Every day is a learning experience. 

If You Look at it Sideways, It’s a Diet

I’m on a new diet.

It’s called “There’s leftover food in the break room!” 

All the kids are doing it.

Left wallet-battered and now the proud owner of plumbing that works and shiny fixtures extolling my dedication to beauty and cleanliness, I’ve turned a cynical eye toward my expenses.

In other words, I am broke until payday. 

And this is how I came to eat a sandwich I wouldn’t necessarily have chosen had I paid for it, a bag of gratis chips, and two freakishly large cookies on Tuesday.

How could the execs not have wanted these cookies?  Huddled at my desk, cheeks bulging, eyes furtively glancing right, left, right, left, I give myself a pat on the back.

Saved a couple bucks there.

Fast-forward to Tuesday night, when I discover both tuna and Tuna Helper in my pantry.  Heaven help us, who bought this, and why do they hate me?  What could I have possibly done...

But that’s the price you pay when you want a flushing toilet and dripless spigots.

It’s at this point I’d like to say that I have been pleasantly surprised, that Tuna Helper is rather tasty.

But that would be lying.  It’s dreadful. 

Luckily, there are only two more big bowls of it to eat before I can move on to fried potatoes.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not complaining, not really.  After all, I paid cash for them thar plumbin’s.

And with Tuna Helper as leftovers, I won’t be tempted to raid the fridge later this evening. 

See? 

Diet. 

Bath Tub Surprises

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  I do like a bath.

And that’s where I was, Sunday night, when I had the strangest experience. 

Aside from what you may have heard, I’m not accustomed to strange experiences in tubs.  True, I once bathed in oatmeal – not sure I did it right, as I needed a brisk shower afterwards.  I also once took a quivering, ice-cold bath after a quivering, ice-cold motorcycle run.  Didn’t warm up until morning.

Outside of that, the tub and I have a good relationship. 

So there I was, Sunday night, fingers slowly pruning, my toes pushing up through bubble kingdoms.  Hot, steamy, relaxing – and the thought bursts forth: “Oh, no!  My watch!”

My watch?

That’s sobering. The last time I wore a wristwatch it was 1992.  It disappeared during a vacation, after a friend decided that I had checked it one too many times. 

She asked to see it, I handed it over, and she threw it into the ocean.

That Cheryl. 

And now, many years later, the ghost of this watch appears in my bathroom.

Holy Hannah.  What is it time for?

Say, What Time is It?

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in my sleep patterns, and I think you should know about it.

Here it is: Every night, I wake up at 3:06. Every single night.

Well of course it’s to use the bathroom. And I’ve come to terms with that.

What amazes me, though, is that it’s always at 3:06. Always.

Twenty-five years ago, this would’ve wigged me right out. I would have already fashioned some either horribly gory tale about the dreadful murders that took place in my house at exactly 3:06 or a poignant tale of unrequited love that, well, somehow involves the numbers three-oh-six. I haven’t quite worked that one out yet.

And why? Because I’m a silly, gullible American made permanently irrational and superstitious by years of crap Hollywood movies, that’s why.

Dead people coming to life after they’ve been drowned/burned/thrown out of airplanes/blown into space? Well how else are we going to milk this to a sequel?

People leaping out of ridiculously improbable locations? Hey! Who doesn’t have something bursting through the interior of their waterbed? I’ll buy that!

Phone calls from beyond the grave predicting my imminent demise and what?! Speak up! What do you mean “will I accept the charges”? Sure! Why not?

Thanks, Hollywood.

Of course, I’m better now. Older and wiser and all that.

Unless of course I’m in the basement and the light goes out.

Or if I repeatedly get phone calls with no one on the other end.

No, really. I’m better now; and 3:06 or no 3:06, by 3:08 I’m back in bed, Dolly G. Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers) pushing her wet little nose into my ear, sweet kitty vocalizations of unconditional love and the promise of treats she will gladly stand on her hind paws to receive.

Now let’s see ‘em ruin that.

Do-It-Yourself Takes on Further Meaning

They don’t tell you how much work it is, living alone.  All this maneuvering of furniture, lifting of heavy things.  And the garbage!  Did you know that I am forced to take out my own garbage?

All those things we don’t think about.  All the little things that we never noticed another person doing.

The first few months are a blur now: cleaning, unpacking, de-bugging.  The previous tenant had, apparently, never opened the windows, never turned on a light.  The cobwebs, or, as I came to know them, “grandma’s undies”, hung from the ceiling, the corners, clung to the baseboard in dingy, drooping failure.  And the bugs!  The bugs were numerous, adventurous little creatures.  There were those that I couldn’t identify, things with pincers or too many legs, things that took up residence in nightly dreams of climbing and falling.

And as all things do, it changed.  The house was scrubbed, the crunchy little beasts are now homeless. 

A large rug covers the stain on the carpet.  A wooden galleon with a clock in its belly sits on the mantle, telling time with a self-satisfied hum. 

I love my place. I admire the wooden shutters over the seven windows in the living room.  I marvel at its high ceilings.

I lay back on the couch, stare at the coffered living room ceiling.  Someone has painted it a rather vibrant yellow, and I picture myself on a ladder, paint in my hair, a damp rag at the ready.

I live alone now. 

It’s far more work than I remember, but things are looking up. 

Do What You Can; or Breaking it Down to Its Most Manageable Bits

I have painted my nails a dark red.  Short nails at the end of fingers on a small hand, I stare at them.

The boiler in a rental unit has died.  The fascia and soffit on the garage has gone soft and splintered in the misguided rain.  A stained glass window is broken and must be replaced.

And I am getting a divorce.

In preparation of the upcoming move, I have been packing my life away. 

The house has never been cleaner.

I rise from the couch and head to the porch, where I put my earbuds in.  There is a man and a dog in the park across the street, and I watch as master hurls ball and loyal sidekick chases.

I light a cigarette.

When I finish, I go through all my books, wipe them off and separate them into “take” and “donate”. 

I am both impressed and horrified by the collection. 

Over the next three hours, I work.  One thing begets another: stacks of books are moved from the three-season porch, the shelves, from piles on the hardwood floor and then into boxes.  I break the vacuum down to the wand, suck up whorls of dusty clouds, then, dissatisfied, pull the bucket from under the kitchen sink and scrub on my hands and knees.  The house smells of PineSol.

Suddenly, I am tired. 

As if from a dream, I look down.  My nails are chipped; and in two cases, broken.  I have a shallow cut on the inside of an index finger.

And after a moment of staring, I go back to the couch, reach for the lotion, the clippers and the polish.

This, I can fix.