For the past, oh, six years, we’ve had this problem where all of our toilets are either running or overflowing or dripping at any given time. We take turns pretending like we don’t hear them, so we won’t have to be the one to get up off our ass to perform the requisite clinking. I’ve even trained untitledson how to clink a toilet, which, I must say, is quite developmentally advanced for a child his age.
Now before I get too far into this, let me just say that going to the bathroom is no fun at all when you have to lord over your kill and make sure that all the remnants and whatnot flush down properly. I can’t remember the last time I went to the bathroom, flushed the toilet and simply walked away. No, in our household, each toilet visit is followed by re-flushing or clinking or god forbid, emergency plunging.
The upside to all this nastiness is that our toilet issues have proved to be a decent cardiovascular workout for me. Few things make me move faster than chunky debris cascading over the toilet lip (except for the time when untitledson pooped in the bath and he thought it was a tub toy).
In an effort to undertake the repairs, untitledhusband dug deep and found his inner Vila (which, as it turns out, had been smothered into submission by his collection of over-priced hair product and his snappy looking Diesel tennies). Grappling his manhood in one hand and a monkey wrench in the other, he undertook the job of replacing our toilet innards. “How hard could it be?” he said.
Now let me go on record as saying that if a project requires anything more complicated than a screwdriver or an Allen wrench, in our case, it is just best to call a professional. For in his efforts to properly tighten a bolt or a nut or a screw or something, he managed to crack the toilet tank in half.
After years of withstanding untitledmother’s nuclear blasts, my bout with food poisoning (Olive Garden, for those interested), and untitledbrother-in-law’s bunker busters (which he will drive 15 miles out of his way just to drop at our house), the turlet is done in by a simple turn of the screw.
For the amount this project is costing, we could’ve easily hired a handyman to do the job several times over. But since I love untitledhusband (and the fact that I am going to need his spermies in about one week), I will refrain from bringing this point up. I may not understand compound interest, how to work my voicemail properly or the popularity of the Wiggles. But I do understand a man’s need to be able to say he fixed his own shitter.