Potty Mouth

I told Linda last week I had to fix my toilet. She offered to help. I think she was still a little jazzed from the double-shots of Depth Recharger, and was looking for a project to whirlwind her energetic way through. I politely declined, looking to challenge myself in 2008, The Year of Becoming Independent.

And besides, I wasn't exactly sure what I would find during this home-improvement project, about myself or the condition of my humble abode.

It took me an additional week to screw up the courage to begin. I knew it would involve sticking my hand in a cold, dark tank where things have been allowed to grow with little interference other than a gentle flushing sound on occasion. I was, however, a little more than excited about the project as I'd read a blog sometime ago about a man who was working on his toilet and a gnome popped out and tried to steal the diamond from his drill bit. I was anxious to see what Sable would do with a gnome running around the house looking for jewels that were packed off some time ago in one of my egyptian cotton pillow-cases.

As it turns out, it wasn't a gnome that popped out of my toilet drain. It was a being so hideous, so slimy, so foul-smelling it made gollum look look like dapper dan.

And it didn't pop out of the toilet drain. It had wrapped itself so tightly around the flapper that I had to use hot dog tongs to get the flapper out of the tank (no, Linda, the tweezers were not long enough). And then, because it wouldn't let go no matter how hard I shook, I had to take it with me to Home Depot.

The language it used! People were staring at me as I walked the aisles. And I finally get to plumbing and there's like an entire crowd of people out that day buying parts for their toilets so I have to stand there in the middle of the crowd not daring to look at the plastic bag in my hand for fear they will identify it as my plastic bag from whence these horrible sounds are coming. I hold the bag closer to my lips so I can tell the little fucker to shut up and let go of the flapper, I have to at least be able to see if I'm getting the right one. And the creepy little thing spits at me. SPITS at me!

I was pissed. So I grabbed the bag and I squeeze hard, nearly throttling the little creep through the plastic, and I hiss, "Let GO of the GODDAMN FLAPPER!" And the Home Depot woman looks at me and says, "Do you need help finding anything?" And I reply, "Oh, no thank you. I'm just picking up a flapper." And she replies, "Well, there are a couple different kinds. Is that the old one in the bag?" And suddenly everyone in the aisle is watching, they likely want to be reassured that it is, indeed, the old flapper in the bag and not a gun or knife cuz I'm clutching it in a somewhat mad fashion and they are, of course, concerned for their safety mainly because I have turned sixteen shades of green and fourteen of red and am still squeezing the shit out of the bag. And they should be concerned because, truly, if this foul-mouthed, foul-smelling little creature were to escape from the bag there would be a few less children in Home Depot that day.

So I grab one of each size flapper and shout, "Thanks, I have what I need!" as I flee the store, using the self-check counter to hasten my escape.

And I get home and the first flapper is the right size and the toilet is fixed and the nasty little gremlin is at the verrrrry bottom of the outside trashcan where I'm pretty sure he is eating the old flapper as I found similar orange pieces of something in the toilet bowl when I flush-tested it shortly thereafter.

Feeling I deserved a pat on the back, I gave myself one in the form of a dirty martini, heavy on the dirt, which I sipped from one of the beautiful martini glasses Gerry gave me for Christmas at Candlelight Supper where we nearly lost our dear Linda during a controversial game of Clue. I sat in the living room, sipping and watching HUGE flakes of snow drift lazily past my windows, feeling drowsy and warm and full of a newfound sense of confidence. Pleased with the day, I headed off to bed and fell into a sound and peace-filled sleep...

...only to be awakened in the wee hours of the morn by falling trees. I went to bed with falling snow; I woke up with falling trees. Yes, plural.

Hey, Linda! Whatcha doing next weekend? Any chance you carry a chainsaw in the backseat of your car? I've got Depth Recharger...