Things About The Toilet

I have a semi-famous toilet. You know, the one responsible for The Great Flood of 2014 and the 2nd Great Flood of 2014? Yeah, that one.

"clean" water tank

Yesterday the Celebrity Toilet decided to start spewing water all over the floor every time some one flushed. The beauty of this latest incident is that instead of poop-contaminated water, it was dripping "clean" water straight from the tank. I say "clean" because one look inside the tank leaves reason to doubt the validity of that claim. How can a tank that circulates fresh water look like a cesspool that four zombies drowned in? Anyway, upon closer inspection, which revealed that A)someone had recently thrown up in/on the toilet and B) we're clearly not doing a good enough job when we have bathroom cleaning duty, it appeared that the water was coming from somewhere in the dark recesses between the tank and bowl.



Being the strong, knowledgeable, independent and self sufficient woman that I am, I immediately texted three experienced plumbers that I am also privileged call friends and relations. Within a short time I had learned that most likely the gasket that goes in between the tank and the bowl was shot, but it was an "easy" DIY fix, and I even got a swell brother-in-law to grab me a new part at the hardware store since he happened to be in town. It was Saturday evening, and since the options of a leaking toilet all weekend or even worse, going without a toilet until I could get the parts were both less than appealing, it seemed like a relief to pin down a solution. As if.

This is wrong. All of it. Especially that Noone has painted behind the toilet in at least four color changes.

Sunday afternoon is the perfect time to set aside for toilet repairs. I mean if stuff goes really bad, you only have to wait until Monday morning for a hardware store less than an hour away to open up.  Plus it's easier to farm kids off to their dads house or wherever they can use a bathroom, because inevitably and invariably, as soon as you get the toilet into various and assorted pieces all over the bathroom, everybody needs to use it. I know this because it happened to me, who was the only one home post-toilet deconstruction. Lucky for me it's baseball season and the school set up an über-convenient Blue Room right across the driveway by the dug-out. I have a lot of experience with Blue Rooms so I wasn't afraid.

So, all brave and fearless and pretty sure I could handle it ("THAT'S THE SPIRIT!" said the swell brother-in-law), I set out to take apart the vintage almond Kohler with a seashell seat. They don't make them like this anymore, and I was fairly concerned about being able to match pieces if the taupe porcelain were to break. I had watched four different YouTube videos that alternately gave me hope and panic attacks, including one guy with a great Brooklyn accent and another one who kept doing it wrong and starting over. YouTube is great for figuring out all of the things you should probably never try to do yourself.

I got half way into trying to remove the first corroded and rusted-on nut and was in tears. It was about 20 minutes of struggling to understand how Guys That Do This Crap make it look so easy, why toilets are crammed in tiny corners,  and whose idea it was to put the bolts underneath where you have to hang your head down and try to reach up with a bulky wrench thingy and get them loose. In addition to earning undying respect for professional plumbers, I learned that it's very important to have the right tools for a job like this. Turns out that none of these were them:

HEART OF DARKNESS

After an hour and a half of deciding I couldn't do it after all, crying, cussing a lot and trying again, I managed to get all three bolts off and remove the tank. It was one of my most triumphant personal moments to date, and I did actually yell "I am woman, hear me roar!" quite loudly upon completion. Unfortunately that was only the first step of the process, and depending on which experienced plumber you ask, also the easiest. Looking at the monster that I had just unleashed, I realized that I probably was dealing with more than just a gasket problem, since the plastic thingy in the middle of the gasket, but totally unrelated to it, was disintegrating to the touch. After a few texts to The People That Know, and a very in-depth but confusing conversation about ball-cocks, shaft-nuts and screwing flappers, I was given strict instructions to step away from the tank before things got any worse. Nothing in the world makes me as grateful to live here as the people that I know and love and that I can count on to jump in to the rescue, even when it means spending a super unfair amount of time in close personal contact with a semi-famous toilet. I am a lucky girl, and I only hope someday I can give something back to make up for all of the getting that I have got.

Finally got the right tool for the job. And once again, a working toilet.

Just kidding Jess, you're totally not a tool. Nice vintage ball-cock there, though.

Things That Are (Not) Sacred

We've had this talk before. The one where I remind the children that the fancy, expensive shampoo is mine, and that they are to use the bulk stuff I buy specifically for them. If they want fancy, expensive shampoo then it is up to them to buy their own. We have had the same talk about razors. About bath towels. About makeup. Over and Over and Over again. Which is why it was no surprise to me that when I took a shower yesterday, after cleaning three Persian cat's worth of hair out of the drain, that I was fighting to squeeze the very.last.drops of my fancy, expensive shampoo out of a bottle that had been half full only two days ago. I have few remaining vanities. I get that I am old. And I don't have a  whole lot going for me anymore. But my hair. Which of course is ONLY successful based on the procurement of fancy, expensive shampoo. And when it is gone, along with the money, which was swallowed alive in a comedy of errors we will call Accidental Miscalculation, I am relegated to using the cheap, bulk shampoo, which happens to be Dove right now. I HATE the smell of Dove shampoo. Shampoo is all about the smell, as much as Megan Trainor is about the Bass, shampoo is about the smell. I can't stand Dove. The kids don't mind it, so I get it FOR THEM. But even then, I only get it when I am wandering Walmart (God Forbid) in a feverish state, and I can't smell from the head cold that will certainly kill me before the day is out, so I get the Biggest, Cheapest Bottle of whatever isn't Suave. But next time I am getting Suave. Because since it is readily apparent that I cannot have fancy, expensive shampoo of my own to use, and I refuse to use Dove, and even if I can't smell the flavors, Suave has to be better than what we've got now.

Don't even let me start on the razors.

And the makeup.

and All of The Things.

All of these frustrations are really just opportunities for me to grow, and learn, and become a better person. By not killing any of my children. And discovering new talents.

Yesterday we had our third monthly toilet flooding. This one was the best so far. With swirling poop water standing two inches deep all the way to the back corner of my bedroom, where I was carefully squirreling away the Christmas Presents. By the time I responded to an expletive laced text from Nattie who unwittingly started the flood while I was over at the neighbors, the damage was irreversible. I didn't cry. Well, not til later. Curiously, we had just rolled up our sleeves and embarked on a sugar cookie decorating adventure over at the neighbor's, when I got the text. Two months ago it was pumpkin carving. Apparently even attempts at Holiday Traditions are not sacred to the fates. I think I might ban the use of the toilet for a 24 hour period around such undertakings. Gingerbread houses are on Tuesday. DECORATORS BE WARNED! Maybe I will dig an outhouse before then. Or, as suggested by the many witnesses of this repeat catastrophe, put a drain in the hallway. So I guess I will be hanging out on ehow.com for awhile this morning, educating myself on the nuances of floor drain installation. See! Learning and growing!

In the meantime, between load of poop-infested laundry today, I will be salvaging the few Christmas presents that I was able to get together this year, and write apologetic notes for the poop streaks that may or may not be included in the packaging. Because I care. Happy Holidays. (don't worry DC, your care package escaped unscathed...)

This morning is one of the coldest ones we have had lately, which meant it was absolutely the perfect time for the pellet stove to throw a hissy fit and quit working. Motivated by numb hands, I quickly tore the beast apart and jerry-rigged a solution, so now the stove is reluctantly cranking it out. I wonder how in the world single moms survived before the advent of google, and do-it-yourself videos about ignitor replacement, and without really helpful brother-in-laws. I was able to convince the pellet stove it could get by just fine with what looks like the scarred remnants of a amputated finger for an ignitor remaining. Clearly this is an issue that will need to be addressed more thoroughly in the near future. Probably when the temperatures are at least sub-zero. I am looking forward to that little do-it-myself lesson.

The good news in all of this is that the head cold that seemed determined to take me out has finally subsided, and I can move ahead with fixing All Of the Broken Things without feeling like I just want to crawl under a rock and die. Being mentally functional is somewhat important today as I have PILES of writing that Must Be Done in addition to the poop laundry and masking of Christmas Gift Poop.

So if you need me, I will be over here, on my computer with the rubber gloves on, googling ignitor replacement and drain installation while I am folding towels and writing about the Grand Army of the Republic and locally crafted beer. And I am really sorry if my hair smells like Dove.

 MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

Things That Make Me Feel Old

This post is loaded with TMI. I am just letting you know up front. But I have to get it out. Now that it's been two weeks and the shame has subsided. I have to come clean.

I wet the bed. I did. The horror of it took several days to wear off, but when I finally admitted it to my sister, she reassured me that everybody does, so I came here, to find affirmation that I am not the only one. Tell me, please, even if you have to lie.

My sister also guessed the weird thing about this particular bed-wetting. "were you dreaming about peeing?" "um, actually, yes." "yeah, I've totally done that." "Thank God." Really, my dream was a bizarrely real visitation of my triumphant return to stage in a reprise of The Music Man, except this time I was playing the lead, and I really did dream that I was in that tiny ladies restroom in The Woodland Theater that we painted periwinkle blue in 1993. I told my sister that since the heinous event, I have decided to never take Tylenol PM again, which I had tried in lieu of a half of a hydrocodone to keep the pain at bay long enough to fall asleep. Turns out it also keeps bladder urges at bay, and then you go and dream about actually sitting on a toilet, and you wet the bed. Yes, I will forgo the sleep aids so that I can lie awake in paranoia of my newly acquired bed-wetting skill. In my own defense, I will tell you that I was so completely shocked, that I actually woke up mid stream and caught myself. I know, TMI, but I warned you! The trick was hiding the evidence from my husband, who of course woke up to me changing clothes (THE SHAME!!!) and wanted to cuddle. Gross. Who cuddles with bed wetters? Seriously. I had to endure at least 5 days of self-flagellation, which also involved investing in $50 in cranberry juice and capsules so I could blame an imaginary bladder infection on the incident if anyone (namely Josh) found out about it, even though I washed my wet pants First Thing the next morning. It seems like after being married for almost two years, a little bed wetting wouldn't be a big deal. Kind of like the time you threw up on his shoes, or when you had a really unfortunate case of diarrhea after a trip to Mexico (also a closely guarded secret)... just one of those things, right? The problem is, I married Mr. Clean. To my knowledge, in the two years since I have known Josh, he has never taken a crap. On the toilet or otherwise. God bless my Irritable Bowel Syndrome and Chronic Diarrhea, my pooping habits have become a mystery long discovered. I blew any fantasies he had of a crapless wife right out of the (toilet) water. I feel bad about this, but have to live with the shame. Having a husband who doesn't even break wind is a very far cry from the boyfriends of old who could win a county wide farting contest with a single bowl of chili. The last man I lived with taught my girls to compliment each other on the tone of their passing gas, and the push behind manly belches. Fast forward to the immaculate Mr. Weston, and nary a toilet seat is left up. In fact, Josh puts the lid down, on every toilet in the house, compulsively. This has become a marital issue between us (interesting switch up on the toilet seat debate, no?) due to an incident when I was about 7 years old and in a Very Big Hurry to use the toilet and somebody had put the lid down. All I remember is my Great Grandmother on her hands and knees mopping it up. There is a good chance my Great Grandmother had actually passed away long before that, and all I can assume is that her ghost returned to shame me from the grave. So toilet lids remain UP in my house. Now and For All of Time. Considering he doesn't even use toilets, I don't know why he has to go around closing them all for the rest of us.

While I am making confession, I would feel bereft to leave out the culmination of All Embarrassments (at least up until two weeks ago), when our family was staying at a Pastor's house and I got to sleep in the bedroom of the slightly older and reverently idolized daughter, just so I could wake up with a frantic need to pee in the wee hours and wet my pants all. over. the. floor. with my hand on the door knob of her room, standing parallel to her once slumbering head. She moaned and rolled over. I have hated her ever since. Interestingly enough, this same girl became my arch nemesis later on when I lived in the cult. But that's another story.

Now that I have gotten all of that off of my chest and on to your victimized mind, I almost feel better. I hope the rest of you get the chance to wet the bed and feel as human as I did. And as old. And as ashamed. I spent the entire next morning texting friends about bladder incontinence and whether I should rush to the ER or buy stock in Depends first. I even checked into reserving a grave plot, now that the inevitable is rushing up at me and I'd like to spare my kids that worry. Alas, now you know my deepest, darkest shame. If you keep reading, I hope to never trouble you with my bladder troubles again. (But you can bet if Josh ever cuts the cheese you're gonna hear about it!)