Meanie

A busted loo and Saint Patrick’s Day.

You would think that one has nothing to do with the other, yes??

Well!! You haven’t been reading here very long then. Obviously.

Now. You might remember that I mentioned in the post previous that Trash was going to fix the loo. Last Sunday he said ‘OH MY GOD I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE I’M GOING TO FIX THE LOO!!’

And I rejoiced. REJOICED!!

No longer would there be the turning on and off the water every frickin’ time one had to, well, you know. Nay!! In a few mere hours the melodious noise of a proper flush would be ringing  throughout the house.

Huzzah!!

Except.

And isn’t there always an except??

Trash, as most of you may know, is no plumber. He knows how to follow directions though, so how could this possibly go wrong??

Wrong it went, as it turns out. No matter how he sorted it the end result was always more fucking water on the floor than in the tank. Says Trash to me, ‘I give up. Tell her to call a fucking plumber’

As if this wasn’t bad enough, since the tank was now leaking like a sieve the minute one fucking ounce of water got in there, we were forced to revert back to the ‘dump a pot of water in the pot’ system, which, HELLO, IS GROSS AND MESSY AND EW EW EW!!

I was not a happy camper.

I was further shocked by EFL’s getting right on the ball to find someone to fix the loo, rather than ask why Trash hadn’t sorted it fifty times straight. The deal had been IF he could fix it he would–and let me tell you, no one was more shocked than I when she acquiesced straightaway.

(You know, on thinking, I should have just told EFL three weeks back that he’d tried to sort it and couldn’t and HELLO, all of this would have been dead and done. But NO!!–I am a moron what attempts to live up to their word. God DAMMIT)

The next morning I was down at EFL’s on an unrelated matter (read: she couldn’t find her glasses so she rang me for help) when lo!!–the handyman type that her friend recommended rang.

Perfect!! Will just sort when he can come by to fix the throne.

‘Tell him to come by tomorrow’

I start hemming and hawing and mention that, REALLY, I’m supposed to go to the parade. And OH MY GOD IT IS TRADITION AND I CANNOT MISS THIS.

Handyman hears my exchange with EFL and very helpfully says ‘You know, I can drop by on Wednesday instead–it’s no problem’

I agree that Wednesday is fine, because while, yes, the pot-slosh flush is highly erratic and sometimes messy if your aim is off by one iota, I am willing to suffer it for one extra day for good ol’ Saint Pat. He asks me what the problem is so I start to explain it to him when EFL starts babbling ‘Oh no!! It can’t be Wednesday!! I have a doctors appointment then’

GAWD.

Ok. Fine. I will even suffer one EXTRA day for the sake of Tradition Familial (even though there was no familial going to the parade with me, or anyone else for that matter).

I start to tell him Thursday is ok when EFL starts yapping, hissing, and shaking her head no vigorously. ‘It CANNOT be Thursday. It will have to be tomorrow’

‘But we’ll be here on Thursday’

‘No, no, no, no, Babs, it’s got to be tomorrow!!’

(And really, it doesn’t matter if EFL is afoot or not, she isn’t going to come up here, so what the fuck does it matter?? He can give her the bill the day after or whatever)

She is adamant in spite of my protests and keeps saying ‘You can watch the parade on TV, can’t you??’

So with a heavy sigh I tell him tomorrow will be fine and even he says ‘Well at least you can watch the parade on TV’

WHY DOES NO ONE GET THAT IT’S NOT THE SAME?!

Off the phone I get, and EFL tells me that the reason Thursday was unacceptable was because the friend who recommended this fellow happened to mention that said fellow is a ‘true alcoholic’ and often disappears for a week at a time. ‘And tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day, Babs!! He’s libel to go on a week-long bender and not show on Thursday!! So it’s tomorrow or nothing’

We will forego the obvious question of just WHY EFL would hire someone with such a glowing reputation etc etc (not that I’m criticizing–hell, half my family would give the Betty Ford clinic a run for the money)–but, you know, one would THINK this might put her off. What’s REALLY pissing me off is that I KNOW chances are really fucking high that EFL will cancel her appointment on Wednesday anyway. Saint Patrick’s Day is my ONE big holiday–the one day of the year I always make sure I take off–and I know I’m getting fucked out of it for things what WILL NOT HAPPEN.

Pardon my French, but you know what?? She’s such a fucking twat.

Saint Patrick’s Day. Handyman arrives noon-ish. Looks over the loo. Tries this. Tries that. Informs me that it’s missing a few bits (some extra washers that hadn’t come with the kit, as we have a Fancy Terlet apparently). Also informs me that he’d been drinking over the weekend, didn’t feel well, and had debated whether to even come over. He’s going to go get the parts and he’ll be back, whens that kids??

Oh yea–fucking Thursday!! Which EFL seems to have no problem with NOW. It’s 1:30–so there’s no way I’d be able to get to Manhattan on time. So I missed my National Holiday so he could drop by, fiddle with the loo for five fucking minutes, and tell me he’s not really into working today.

And, of course, she cancels her fucking appointment on Wednesday. As I knew she would.

He comes back Thursday, sorts the loo (and it was established, much to Trash’s good cheer, that he’d done everything right except one tiny bit that he couldn’t help), and we can flush the loo like normal people again.

(Note I didn’t mention how kitchen sink managed to go exactly then and flood the entire room as I was running water over eggs. Because the god damned bottom pipe decided to fucking detach itself at that very moment)

I go downstairs to fetch his money from EFL (who is not receiving visitors because Madam does not feel well) and she says ‘Tell him I said God sent him!!’

It took all my strength to stop myself from mumbling ‘Well St. Patrick sure as fuck didn’t. You stupid cow’

Fin.