”Aren’t you supposed to be writing a book or something?”** - spoken by one Mr. RvH of Lake Bluff, IL on Sunday, March 2, 2008.
Yes, you know I
have. I’ve finished - and am trying to sell - one and am writing another. So why should that preclude decoupaging a toilet seat? Or am I unappreciative of an attempt to keep me “on task?” It’s not like he said, “When was the last time you washed socks?”
Let me back track...Saturday was my birthday. After a certain age, a well balanced soul knows that any birthday is a good birthday. And a woman of any semblance of maturity doesn’t expect the world to rotate around her natal observance (you know, with the exception of that clock-stopping thing they will do for the Queen of England on her birthday). But still. There lurks in me a trace of school-girl who wants to be treated ‘special’ on her special day. A petulant school-girl who does not want the highlight of her birthday to be toilet shopping at Home Depot.
Could have been worse...If it hadn’t been Leap Year, my birthday would have been the day when the toilet in our downstairs powder room “gave up” in the most distressing way. In the hours I was at work, the situation worsened. Plunging did not work, the toilet had to be bailed out, the decision was made that some non-organic object had jammed the whole works and that the toilet should be replaced. After multiple melt-downs... over calling a plumber, which plumber, why would we wait until a Friday night to call a plumber, why did Dad use the vintage soup kettle to hold the toilet water, is Martha’s friend a member of a well-known local plumbing family or is he one of the electrician branch of the same family. There were some dark moments there.
There are only two times in almost thirty years of marriage that I have up and walked out. Once, when I was pregnant and Em was a toddler. Nothing personal, really. I told Rick to find an Orkin Man, a witch doctor or flamethrower - it didn’t matter to me - and call me at my parents house when the earwigs had been exorcised from our home. And, several years later, when we were living in Wisconsin. I think I was expecting Martha...(I’m sensing a hormonal connection here)...and the girls’ behavior at dinner was so atrocious that I got up and walked out. After taking refuge with my parents for a few hours...crying, nibbling cookies and sipping hot coco...I returned home (i.e. was dispatched by Mom and Dad) to reconcile with Rick and the gang.
Sometime between “No amount of bleach will convince me to eat soup made in that kettle,” and “Why the hell should we pay a plumber tonight when I can replace the toilet myself tomorrow,” I had images of taking that small amount of tax refund money in my checking account and disappearing. Running away to see my sister? Fleeing to New Orleans and starting over as a street performer? Checking into the Palmer House for a couple days? Ouch...when we promise for better or worse, who’s thinking plumbing? Even pacing the waiting room while Rick has his pheo surgery or his helping me recover from my hip replacement had some aura of sweet, romantic suffering. But a terminally clogged toilet?
I came to my senses. Everyone else calmed down, too. (And the soup kettle was dispatched to the trash.) An apologetic Rick even surprised me with a pre-birthday surprise cake at dinner. And proposed a trip to Home Depot - kinda like a date, right - plus the opportunity to go anywhere else my heart desired on Saturday.
I made the best of Home Depot...which is a nerve shattering experience under the best of circumstances. Too much noise, harsh lighting, too many choices. For a few moments I felt light-headed, nauseated and wished that I would be a victim of one of those unfortunate incidents in which a store patron is crushed by merchandise falling from a shelf far overhead. Rick sent me to ‘chill’ in the front of the store where he finished the deliberations. I enjoyed trying out the lawn furniture floor samples, but was none too amused by the magazine I picked up which explained the elements of feng shui for beginners. (Did you know leaking plumbing causes a loss of ‘chi’ and leads to exhaustion and conflict? No s**t Sherlock! Why do you think I was at Home Depot?)
To sweeten the deal, because it was “my day,” I could pick out any seat I wanted. I thought the solid wood (no pressed particle junk after all we’d been through...) with cherry finish would be the perfect touch and look oh so perfect with the French themed bathroom decorations.
For my next treat, I chose Hobby Lobby. JoAnn’s and Michael’s are my craft store temptations and I didn’t really need to be enabled to find another place. But I’d heard so many people rave about Hobby Lobby. And I would usually think of going there on Sundays, when their corporate policy has them closed. I respect that, but Sunday is my craft fun running around day, so have never been inside that store.
It was all I had expected. I found some new scrapbooking papers, stickers, some other little crafty things and the perfect purple felt remnant for the spare offering basket I have promised to reline for work. Rick bought me a gorgeous pitcher with a chicken on it - Hobby Lobby is
the source for “cock collectors” such as myself.
So, on Sunday, with the toilet beautifully installed and functioning and with craft inspiration fresh in my mind, I mentioned that I would like to make a French themed collage on the lid of the new wooden toilet seat. And Rick said no. “Don’t. Please. Aren’t you supposed to be writing a book or something?” Yeah, he’s right. I can’t imagine why there should be such a spate of fabulists, prevaricators and poseurs in the literary world. Reality is brimming (flushed, overflowing) with such potential material.
