You know what's worse than getting a stomach bug over the holidays when your whole family is in town? Being the first one to get a stomach bug over the holidays when your whole family in town. Because just when you start feeling better, your phone starts vibrating with friendly text messages from your cousins and aunts and mother thanking you for contaminating them with YOUR FILTHY VILE PLAGUE.
I'm SORRY! I'm SORRY! I went home as soon as I felt unwell!
I thought I was just tired and grouchy from all the festivities, but the next thing I knew, Larry had to rush me home to our new toilet bowl.
I mean this bowl was BRAND SPANKIN' NEW. We'd put off purchasing it for years, and when Gus finally stood on the old pot and knocked the top of the tank to the floor so that it broke into two pieces, we knew it was time.
And we did what any sensible couple with a broken toilet would do. We draped a bunch of towels over it for three months in the hopes that it would spontaneously regenerate.
But then the old toilet started acting funny and not filling properly (read: AT ALL), and then my parents e-mailed and said "We're coming for Thanksgiving!" and the rest of my family said "We're coming too!" and I thought, we need a new toilet. Because if the good toilet in the guest bathroom malfunctions*, then my family will be lining up to use the broken redneck toilet that is no longer wearing its tank top--so all its lady parts and plumbing and whatnot are just out there for all to see.
So, Larry bought a new toilet. And he parked it in the living room, and I called a plumber to install it before my parents arrived. But the plumber's daughter got sick and he couldn't make it until the next day. So there were my parents and our new toilet, all three standing in the middle of the living room, and I was all, "Welcome to our humble commode!"
*Everything malfunctions when my parents come to visit. Glasses fly out of hands and shatter on the floor. Light bulbs blow out. There are no extra toothbrushes. Or water crackers. The door handles snap off the minivan. The check engine light comes on. But the power locks start working! Wait … no! Not working! Yes! Working! No—sorry—not working. It’s just the way it is.
I should publish a magazine called “House Adequate”. Our December feature would be “How to Make Your House Look Just Okay for the Holidays.”
But I DIGRESS.
So, the plumber arrives (when my parents are there), and he gets the toilet base installed, but when he goes to unwrap the new tank, GUESS WHAT?
IT'S CRACKED!
JUST LIKE THE OLD ONE!
CRACKED IN TWO!
NOT UNLIKE MY PERSONAL SELF!
Redrum! Redrum!
It was too late to go back to Home Depot that night, and the next day was Thanksgiving, so Larry had to return the broken tank on Black Friday, when there was one toilet tank left at the very tipppppppy top of the store scaffolding … AND THEN the plumber returned, this time with his five year old daughter in tow, which delighted my boys to no end. She promptly informed me that she loves kindergarten, eats mostly organics, and is a Leo, which means "I am of the lions." And I promptly arranged for her and Gus to be married.
But onward! To the moral of the story, which is this:
I threw up 16 times in 12 hours and am no longer possessed by the devil.
I no longer possess any internal organs either, but I think my aunt, two cousins, and mother (and anyone else I contaminated) would agree … that is a SMALL PRICE TO PAY.
I'm SORRY! I'm SORRY! I went home as soon as I felt unwell!
I thought I was just tired and grouchy from all the festivities, but the next thing I knew, Larry had to rush me home to our new toilet bowl.
I mean this bowl was BRAND SPANKIN' NEW. We'd put off purchasing it for years, and when Gus finally stood on the old pot and knocked the top of the tank to the floor so that it broke into two pieces, we knew it was time.
And we did what any sensible couple with a broken toilet would do. We draped a bunch of towels over it for three months in the hopes that it would spontaneously regenerate.
But then the old toilet started acting funny and not filling properly (read: AT ALL), and then my parents e-mailed and said "We're coming for Thanksgiving!" and the rest of my family said "We're coming too!" and I thought, we need a new toilet. Because if the good toilet in the guest bathroom malfunctions*, then my family will be lining up to use the broken redneck toilet that is no longer wearing its tank top--so all its lady parts and plumbing and whatnot are just out there for all to see.
So, Larry bought a new toilet. And he parked it in the living room, and I called a plumber to install it before my parents arrived. But the plumber's daughter got sick and he couldn't make it until the next day. So there were my parents and our new toilet, all three standing in the middle of the living room, and I was all, "Welcome to our humble commode!"
*Everything malfunctions when my parents come to visit. Glasses fly out of hands and shatter on the floor. Light bulbs blow out. There are no extra toothbrushes. Or water crackers. The door handles snap off the minivan. The check engine light comes on. But the power locks start working! Wait … no! Not working! Yes! Working! No—sorry—not working. It’s just the way it is.
I should publish a magazine called “House Adequate”. Our December feature would be “How to Make Your House Look Just Okay for the Holidays.”
But I DIGRESS.
So, the plumber arrives (when my parents are there), and he gets the toilet base installed, but when he goes to unwrap the new tank, GUESS WHAT?
IT'S CRACKED!
JUST LIKE THE OLD ONE!
CRACKED IN TWO!
NOT UNLIKE MY PERSONAL SELF!
Redrum! Redrum!
It was too late to go back to Home Depot that night, and the next day was Thanksgiving, so Larry had to return the broken tank on Black Friday, when there was one toilet tank left at the very tipppppppy top of the store scaffolding … AND THEN the plumber returned, this time with his five year old daughter in tow, which delighted my boys to no end. She promptly informed me that she loves kindergarten, eats mostly organics, and is a Leo, which means "I am of the lions." And I promptly arranged for her and Gus to be married.
But onward! To the moral of the story, which is this:
I threw up 16 times in 12 hours and am no longer possessed by the devil.
I no longer possess any internal organs either, but I think my aunt, two cousins, and mother (and anyone else I contaminated) would agree … that is a SMALL PRICE TO PAY.
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