Time Promised To No Man
I replaced a toilet and toilet supply line shut-off valve today. A toilet, that was supposed to have been replaced six years ago by my late husband - he even made me promise not to do it while he was at work. It wasn’t like I didn’t know how to replace a toilet - between my 12+ hour a day nanny job during the week, cleaning my dad’s house and doing some of his chores around said house on the weekends while the sister who lived with him sat on her ass and watched television, and cleaning my own house in between while my late husband worked an 8 hour day and played video games all day on his days off and my teenage son did school and video games - I didn’t have the time to replace it, but my late husband knew me well. Even if I had forgotten because of the stroke, there’s always YouTube University and he would have gone to work worrying what he was going to come home to. So, I made the promise eagerly so it wouldn’t be something I had to fret about among the eighty thousand other things.
Welp, it never happened. And five flushing mechanisms, four flappers, a gallon of CLR, and finding out the shut-off valve that “doesn’t shut off anymore” later, there is a new valve to the supply line and a new toilet where the old one stood. It took two trips into Manhattan and one to Clay Center (both about half an hour trips each way), a lot of cussing - “I am so fucking sick of men and their fucking promises only to have to fucking do it myself when they ain’t fucking around!” - and me tossing the old toilet out of the back door onto the patio in fit of rage - “He fucking PROMISED!” - and asking my son if it was my idea not to get a new toilet when we renovated the bathroom for the second time because I was sure I had one picked out - but i am a stickler for staying within budget, so it could have been me who decided not to replace the toilet back then. “He said no, because he wanted the one with the heated seats and dual flush - it was $300 back then.”
That bit of memory recall didn’t help my mood in the slightest.
I guess my anger, even my irrational anger taken out on the poor old toilet who had served and lived well past its prime, is I don’t ask people to do things I’m perfectly capable of doing myself. I ask them to do it because I don’t have the time to do it and if all you’re doing is leisure time, there’s no reason why you can’t help out - especially if you insist on doing the task.
But that wasn’t the end of my anger. After I turned the old toilet into a jigsaw puzzle of ceramic pieces (this was after the second time of going into Manhattan - I HATE traveling in that city), I saw the convoluted way my late husband had installed the toilet closet flange (that’s its official name - not the “ring thingy that has the screws sticking out of it,” apparently), and placed all the different things needed because the waste drain pipe (another piece of necessary nomenclature, by the way) was below the floor. Why he didn’t bother extending the drain pipe, I do not know. I had left the project when the floor was torn up and he had said, “WOMAN! Go get me a sandwich,” when I asked why he was doing something a certain way. Oh, I got him back for that one. He got his sandwich - I am a good wife, after all. He got bologna and cheese - neither had their wrappers removed and the plate was tossed in the dirt with a, “Here’s your fucking sandwich.” Not gonna lie, I was disappointed the sandwich didn’t flop onto the ground, but that would have just been the cherry on top. After that, I left him to his own devices on the renovation project.
Seriously, when I ask why you are doing something a certain way, I legitimately want to know. If it’s because “that’s just how it’s done,” which was my late husband’s go-to response, rest assured, you will get an alternative way of doing it. I’m a huge believer in the adage, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” Before PITA gets on my ass, I would never skin a cat - I’m just using the phrase. I just know there’s about a hundred different ways to do something, some of which are faster - just not necessarily safer - so by explaining it to me like a three year old, I fully understand why you are doing it a certain way.
Anyhoo, I had known the pipe was lower than the floor prior to replacing the toilet, but the Frankenstein’s Monster I came across I did not know about. Oh, I figured out how to correct it with what I had after watching YouTube and using common sense and a bit of creative deductive reasoning. But I was cursing up a storm - the inner Feminist had been unleashed and when you pair her with the Bitch, they are unstoppable. They can accomplish anything. They’re just both really, really angry. At men. All men. Actually, anything with a penis. Except dogs. Male dogs get passes because they’re furry and cuddly. Humans, not so much. Thankfully my helper (who has a penis) was understanding that I wasn’t mad at him, because once I got that damned toilet in place, the screws on the flange were juuuust off centered. He remembered the toilet was like that before and what needed to be done (slight adjustment of screws) and we had the toilet seated. Putting the tank on was easy and then it was time for the water test.
Now, I can do plumbing. I’m just not very good at it. Doing a couple of trips to town to get parts I needed or forgot is the norm and usually it takes a few tries to finally stop all the leaks and life can continue on. I was prepared for that - to a point. One trip to Manhattan to get the stuff I would need at 8:15am, then a trip to Clay Center to get the shut-off valve I had just discovered I needed at 10:38am, then another trip to Manhattan around 12:30pm to get the proper frigging supply line because the shut off valve was the wrong size and ALL of the supply lines I had were faucet supply lines (who the fuck knew that toilet supply lines and faucet supply lines were two different sizes…) - that was not planned on because it had never happened that bad before. So I went down into Spider King’s domain again (I had to shut the water off when I discovered the valve was broken) and shouted for my helper to flush the toilet. Given how my entire day had gone, I was expecting a frigging waterfall under my house - my helper frantically shutting off the new valve, scrambling to get towels to clean the leaks coming from the tank and toilet. No lie, that was the imagery filling my mind as I descended the ladder. I was pretty much to the point of “Fuck it, you whippersnappers are gonna see how it was in the old days of pissing and shitting in a bucket.”
Not. One. Leak. And now, four hours later, still no leaks. Honestly, I don’t attribute the lack of leaks to my abilities. I attribute it to my late husband, who decided to visit me while I was in Menard’s getting the proper supply line. I could feel him smile at me and patting my shoulder. I heard him whisper full of confidence, “You got this.” To which I silently replied, “I love you Kristopher, but fuck you.” And I felt his chagrin. No lie, I do believe my late husband asked God for a favor because there should have been leaks - I know my talents and no leaks is suspicious. I’ve already made plans to visit the Spider Kingdom next weekend to adjust the jacks under my house - I think shimmying my ass towards the bathroom to check and make sure is a good idea.
My point in telling this tale is two fold. First, the amount of shit that is needed for household plumbing is fucking ridiculous - make all the shit the same and leave it the fuck alone. Not all of us can afford plumbers. The second thing is for any men who read this: When your significant other asks you to do something, please, for the love all that is fucking holy, get it done. ESPECIALLY if you know, have a suspicion, or even think she’s perfectly capable of accomplishing the task. She’s not asking you because she doesn’t want to do it - cuz, let’s face it, us girls do not like being damsels in distress. It’s because she doesn’t have the time and is asking you for your help - if you would take the time away from your phone, your computer screen or your television. If you can’t get to it within the week, just let her know when you plan on getting to it. Don’t just tell her you’ll do it, then you up and die and she’s stuck with the repairs - believe me, it’ll happen.
It happened to me.
