Thirty days ago I purchased a toilet repair kit. For the past month this kit sat in our bathroom nestled next to the toilet. Because, you know, the kit and toilet had to get to know one another. They had to date. I didn’t want to pressure them lest they contest their arranged marriage. And I certainly did not want the toilet to elope with the repair kit next door. I also harbored clandestine fantasies that the hub, in a manly state of affairs, would replace the sticky float valve. But apparently he too was concerned about pushing too far too fast and also postponed the porcelain nuptials.
Thus the toilet remained in a state of disrepair; the only way to fill the tank was to lift the lid and tap the float arm. We tried other remedies; excessive shaking of the handle, kicking the bowl, cursing. Nothing worked. Please don’t report us for toilet abuse. We love our toilet and have no desire to revert to outhouse usage. We do nice things with our toilet too. We read with it daily: Nobokov, Kidd, Lamott, Colbert. A wide range of literary options are readily available within arm’s reach.
But back to the nuptials. Today I’d had enough. It was time. Wrench in hand I presided over the ceremony. After a mere twenty minutes two became one. It was very touching - a match made in heaven (well China actually, that's practically the same right?).
My only regret? That we didn’t get them together sooner. Now I can rip up the “How to Use Our Toilet” instructions.
Oh, hello! Welcome to my home! The restroom? Sure but take these
instructions with you. It explains how to use our toilet. What? No,
I’m not trying to insult you. Wait! Where are you going?
Perhaps now people won't be seen running from our house - fleeing the odd people within. Then again maybe not.
Most of you are aware Sunday was Mother’s Day. I had to work eight to eight leaving little time to see the kids. My workday was slow with few emergencies. We had two hospitalized patients, a dog bit by a rattlesnake and a dog with dysfunctional adrenal glands. Around 6 o’clock I opened my big mouth, “If things stay like this I’ll actually get home on time.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid! (read with accompanying banging of head on wall). Everyone knows this type of talk invites karmic revenge. The world does not want things to work out properly, easily - no. What would be the fun in that?
As such a boxer walked through the door at 7:15 pm; forty-five minutes before I was supposed to leave. Why was this boxer there? He had a belly ache. An x-ray revealed the cause - large rocks in the stomach; i.e. surgery. Four rocks and one blue plastic piece later I was finally able to go home. It was 10:20 pm. I called to let the family know I was on the way. The hub had given up and gone to bed (he had to work at six) but the kids were waiting up. Keep in mind - this was a school night.
As I walked in the door music started playing - Pink Moon by Nick Drake. I looked up and saw this:
The kids led me the couch:
They did their best impression of fanatical football fans:
Then they took off my shoes, rubbed my feet and told me how much they loved me. Finally we wandered upstairs, read “Are You My Mother?” and fell sound asleep. I couldn't have asked for a better Mother's Day.