This little sing-song ditty came to me last night in the middle of Target, on my second trip there to buy a new toilet seat (the first one I bought had broken hardware), after my dad broke the toilet seat. So I’m walking through Target, carrying a toilet seat, when the song pops into my head. Papa just keeps falling down, falling down, falling down… And then all of a sudden, I’m giggling in Target, trying very hard not to pee my pants from laughing so hard, while carrying a toilet seat. The irony, you know. Not to mention that I look like a crazy woman, laughing stupidly in the aisle at Target, carrying a toilet seat.
I’m losing my mind, folks.
Poor Dad. He was using the water closet (I will give him the benefit of a few euphemisms here, since I have so little regard for his embarrassment that I’m using this story for blog fodder) and stood up, slipped on the little rug in front of the porcelain throne and fell (crashed?) backward back onto it. His second spectacular fall on this trip.
Now, there are lots of embarrassing moments in life, but having to admit to breaking a toilet seat is near the top of the list. However, the embarrassment can be mitigated by blaming one’s daughter for putting the rug there (I think he was joking), or even blaming the rug itself. That last one requires advanced blaming skills, but it can be done. (It’s only fair and compassionate to point out here that my dad has neuropathy in his feet as a result of his diabetes. I in no way mean to mock or diminish the problems he has with his balance sometimes, and hope to avoid a similar fate. I wouldn’t laugh about any of this if he wasn’t laughing about it, too.)
Two trips to Target last night yielded two toilet seats that were already broken inside their packaging. So the new seat was never installed. Two trips to Target after 8 p.m., all for nothing. Oh wait, I found a cute pair of jeans. Never mind.
Imagine, then, my dad having to tell me this morning about this little peach of a discovery: “You’re going to need a new toilet. The toilet has a crack.” (Yeah, go on, find your own puns. I won’t point them all out for you.)
Dad and his wife J were on their way out the door at that moment to drive down to Mexico for an overnight trip.
“Sorry your toilet’s broken, but we’ll pay for everything. Oh, and sorry to leave this for you to handle while we go to Mexico.”
Okay, they didn’t say it exactly like that, but that was the gist of it.
Do I know a plumber? No. Is Mr. H home? No. Do I feel like lugging home a new toilet from Home Depot all by myself, to put into a house that we rent? No. Is buying one myself cheaper than having a plumber buy one? Yes. Do I need to grow a set and stop whining? Probably.
But my freaking toilet is broken.
At least, every time I get annoyed that I have to handle this on my own, all I have to do is hear that little song in my head, and I’m reduced to the stupid choked laughter of a 12-year-old boy. And I could probably call my sister Ducky at any point today and we’d both laugh about it again. Because, c’mon, this is a story for the ages.
Still, my freaking toilet is broken. Did I mention that?
I really hope you all don’t get that song stuck in your head today. Really, that would be terrible.
Okay, here’s another one, and you can all get on board with this one: “Mommy just keeps drinking wine, drinking wine, drinking wine…
‘Cause she’s going crazy.”