Three days ago, Hubert, our landlord’s handyman, fixed the leaking pipes under the house, re-floored the bathroom, and put the toilet back. The house still stank, but now I didn’t have to loiter anymore at places with public bathrooms and all-day coffee. I celebrated.
However, I celebrated a little too soon. That night, having gotten up in the wee hours of the morning as one does when one is 48, I discovered something disconcerting about Hubert’s handiwork. The toilet wasn’t bolted. It was like trying to pee in a rocking chair. I wished that I had turned the light on first . . . and that I weighed less. Apparenly, Hubert wasn’t as done with the bathroom as I had hoped.
The next day he came back and finished the job, leaving me with the ambitious idea to remodel the rest of the bathroom. I had a new floor. I wanted new walls to go with it. While I went to Lowe’s to pick out the paint (‘lemon chiffon’), Randy scraped the walls and removed the hardware from the vanity drawers. When I came back, I found a totally denuded bathroom with paint flecks on every surface and no way to open the cabinets. And no way to get at the toilet paper Randy had secreted in them. I found that last part out at a particularly inconvenient moment.
That was two days ago. Yesterday, I painted the bathroom. It was a far more painful experience than I had anticipated. Sitting on the floor and bending over until my nose touched my knees just to paint the baseboard behind the toilet did something unnatural to the rest of my body. . . especially my calves. I’ve been groaning and shuffling around like a 90-year-old mental patient today. . .
. . . But, thankfully, at least now I have somewhere to sit down. . .
It was all finished just in time, too. Tomorrow my out-of-town cousin will be visiting my home for the first time. We will have a family cook-out in my backyard – family consisting of my mother, my brother Dennis, his two kids, Cousin Phoebe, Randy, and myself. Unfortunately, the Smell hasn’t quite disappeared. . . Hence the cook -OUT.
I can only hope that the aroma of cooking food tomorrow doesn’t mingle with the odor of swamp wafting out from under our house. Talk about putting people off their dinners. I would hate it if hamburgers became inextricably linked to porta-potties in everyone brains after I’m done with them.
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