I'm obsessed with toilets. Or the lack of one.
You see, last week, before his surgery, Mr W had some nesting action going on. The toilet in our bathroom had been leaking for some time. He decided to fix it, which was fine, he'd done this before, but in the process, the crack in the tank, that's been there for a long time, gave way.
Back to Home Depot he went. For about the third time.
He bought a new tank, but it was incompatible with our toilet bowl. It was already after seven, so he said I'd have to go get a new bowl later in the week, and just have it installed.
He'd reached that point in do-it-yourself home repair, the one every homeowner has been at at one time or another, the point of: "Hire the trained professional. I wash my hands of this *#@!& mess."
"Sure, no problem," I said. "We'll be fine, I mean, it shouldn't take too long for them to get someone out to install it. I can go on Wednesday."
I figured, big deal, we can manage with one toilet. We are all reasonable people. (Audrey excluded, as no three year old is reasonable) Chin up, and all that jazz.
Wednesday rolled around, we went in and got everything squared away, and all I had to do was wait for the phone call to set up our installation date.
"Next Tuesday," Mr W announces as I get back into the car after a quick stop for a drink for the little miss.
My initial response was along the lines of "You gotta be (add expletives to your liking) kidding me." But, realizing it was out of my hands, I sighed, and said "Fine." I mean, really, at this point, there was nothing else I could do. Well, except for the digging in the backyard option, but I'm sure my neighbors would've had a problem with that.
It's been a loooonnnng week, with six people and one toilet. I felt I couldn't complain, what with still having the miracle of modern indoor plumbing in one bathroom, at least. Lots of people live their entire lives with one toilet or nature's toilet, who am I to complain? Spoiled American girl, just be happy that this one flushes whenever you want and you don't have to resort to substituting the good china in place of a chamberpot. You can do this.
And I did do it. But it wasn't easy.
Every time I entered, intent on relief, guaranteed, before my butt warmed the porcelain, someone would be knocking. Or worse, I'd hear little feet tap-tapping as they jumped up and down on the tile, "Mooom! I neeed to goooo!" In a household of boys, there was more than one time that "go outside" crossed my mind....
Oh, and a closed door? Not sacred. I'd gone in, while the kids were eating breakfast, thinking I'd manage to actually finish before someone needed it, when <horrors> in marches Nolan, my cell phone in his hand. I'm telling him to get out, he's telling me it's my friend Jenny on the line, and I'm hissing at him, "Take it out and you talk to her!" while I simultaneously assume the defensive "don't look at me" posture. Not pretty.
I forgot to lock the door--my fault. The fact that it is closed, yet sets off no "maybe I should knock first" logic--alarming.
Thankfully, the man came and installed our new, taller, toilet today. He was late enough to make me worry, but as I told Mr W, "I don't care what time he shows up, I want my toilet...today. Because I can't take it anymore."
It's blissfully white, and still pristine, in the grand scheme of things. I almost wanted to put one of those paper strips across it, like in a hotel, and admire it for a couple of hours.
But of course, before I got a chance, someone used it.