The plumber, whose name (I swear – I’m not making this up) is John, is sitting with Michael at the kitchen table when I get home from work.

Michael had already gotten a receipt. I know, from previous experiences, that this exchange usually takes place after the work is done. So, when John all too cheerily blurted out, “Hi there. Your toilet’s broken,” it was difficult not to say, “Gee, this is awkward – I thought you were the plumber.” Instead, I simply said, “Yeah, I was the one who called.” Then I put down the groceries I had brought in and went back out to the car for another load. It was on this trip out to the car that I noticed the toilet which, to my knowledge, had never lived in our garage before, but which was now sitting there proud as you please. If it had been a snake or a shark or even a lamb on Valium, it might have bitten me – that’s how close I was to it when I had walked by it the first time. My powers of observation are keen indeed.

Immediately humbled and sorry for wrongly thinking before that John might well be a moron, I grabbed more groceries from the trunk, and upon re-entering the kitchen, asked him, “So what’s up?”

John explained to me that he was busying himself tightening the thingamabobber on the toilet which used to reside in the master bath when the tank cracked right down the side.

Having noticed that my eyes were none too sharp and that he was, in all likelihood, dealing with a moron, he pointed in the direction of the toilet in question to better illustrate his meaning.

So, that evening, after John had gone on his merry way, we made a family outing to Lowe’s and bought a brand- spanking-new toilet, which John would install for us the very next day. Michael said that from now on when we had plumbing jobs, John wanted us to call him directly instead of phoning the company.

No doubt, Michael is a plumber’s wet-dream. So, whenever I think about that conversation taking place, I can’t help but visualize Michael and John the Plumber happily running toward each other over a field of flowers – Michael with a wad of money in hand and John with his plunger.

The next day, John made good on his word. He fixed the toilet at a reasonable rate, and finished the job before I got home from work. He also told Michael a story, which, in my opinion, is as good a story as you’ll ever hear. If it’s not true, I don’t care, because the way I see it, I’m getting in on the ground floor of what’s sure to be an urban legend.

A Plumber’s Tale

John is using a snake to clear a clog in a toilet drain for a guy. They guy is hanging out with him and watching him work. John keeps pulling condoms one by one out of the drain pipe. After watching John pull about thirty of them out of there, the guy asks, “So, what are those things you keep finding?” John answers back, “Well, they’re condoms, sir.” The guy looks stunned, goes suddenly pale, and tells John that he’s had a vasectomy for fifteen years.

Not surprisingly, he also murmurs something about divorce.

My first instinct when Michael told me that story was to be pissed off.

See, I’ve had dealings with John in the past and he never got chummy enough with me to tell me any cool plumber stories. Nor, for that matter, had he ever offered to do any work for me on the “down low.” “What”, I thought, “is that about? Am I not good enough to tell your stories to, Plumber Man?”

Then it occurred to me what must’ve happened.

See, Michael doesn’t talk to people. Sometimes, if they’re lucky, he’ll answer them. But, he never attempts to make small talk. He’s not a social person.

Socially, Michael tends to totter between being either incredibly rude or shy to the point of dysfunction… Let’s just say, he can make people uncomfortable.

Let’s also say, he’s the type of person who will stare at you while you fix his toilet.

While we’re saying those things, we might also say that Nazis confessed to countless atrocities under only slightly less pressure than poor John the plumber was under the day he told that story to Michael. In fact, I’ve often thought that if we could force suspected terrorists to hang out alone with my husband for a couple of hours, the bastards would talk. Oh, they’d talk alright.

So, now you understand (as I do) that John the plumber doesn’t like Michael better than he does me. He doesn’t. I’m not jealous. There’s no need to be. Shut up. You don’t know him at all. I’m outta here.

Has anybody been doing anything more interesting than watching poker tournaments on television? I’d be willing to bet you have. In fact, I’m pushing in all my chips on that one.

Me? Well, when I’m not busy attempting to help my daughter with her homework, I’m watching some sort of poker show.

Apparently, poker is my new religion. I’ve become quite evangelistic about it. I frighten people with my enthusiasm. I smile brightly and ask strangers, “Have you found Texas Hold ‘Em? Do you have poker in your life, my child?” Two months ago, I was the same way about knitting. I still knit sometimes while I watch poker shows. At those moments, I am as close to Nirvana as ever I shall be.

But enough about poker. Let’s talk about toilets.

You may recall from some of my previous posts that my husband, Michael, is no plumber. That may be the understatement of the year. I’m well aware that we’ve got a couple more months before the end of the year, but let’s keep that statement in mind anyway. It’s gonna be a tough one to beat.

Anyhoo, we have two toilets upstairs and one downstairs. The one in the hall bathroom had been broken for six months, but it was still usable. The problem was that once you flushed it, it would take almost half an hour for the tank to refill. Inconvenient, yes, but we lived with it. Then, this past Wednesday night, the toilet in the bath that’s off the master bedroom broke. It wouldn’t stop running, and Michael had to shut the water off to it. Fine.

So, the next day, Michael decides to fix the one in the hall. What could go wrong?

Ed. note: If this blog were a suspense thriller type movie, you’d hear eerie music as soon as I posed that question.

So, he and Charlotte head upstairs. She’s going to help him fix the toilet. They are both overly confident and cheerful.

Cue more eerie music.

Shortly thereafter, Charlotte comes back downstairs. “Mom, do we have any plastic cups?” Barely resisting the urge to scream and run out the door, I shakily reply, “Yes.” I ask no questions.

I hand her the cups and she is gone again up the stairs.

Five minutes later, she is back. “Mom? Do we have a bucket?”

Once more I resign myself to live in complete denial of whatever is going on in that bathroom, and I quickly locate a bucket for her. This time, however, I do quietly ask, “Is everything OK?”

As soon as the query is spoken, I regret having asked it. I pray for vagueness in her response and am relieved when she says only, “Sure Mom. It’s gonna be fine.”

Ten minutes later, they are both back downstairs. Michael says, “Congratulations! Now that toilet is completely broken. We’re calling a plumber.”

So, I call a plumber.

But, the story doesn’t end there.

If you’ll come back around tomorrow, I’ll post the conclusion to this little installment along with an intriguing tale that the plumber swears is true.

PS – Sorry I haven’t been writing lately or keeping up with what’s going on with everyone else. I’ve just been busy with other things, and in my spare time, I’ve wanted to do nothing that requires any effort whatsoever. Even if I did feel like writing, I had nothing to write about. I’ve had a splinter in my foot for about three months. I could’ve written about that, I suppose, but aren’t splinters infinitely more interesting when they are stuck in your elbow or something? I always thought so. Anyhow, hope all is well with everybody.