Category: Life

Along the same lines of my giving readers a heads up not to scroll down for the naked photos that did not exist in my “Skiing Naked” post, I need to be up front about the content to follow, which is not about past relationships, disappointments, unmet expectations, or worse, but rather is about fixing toilets.  I had hoped this post would have a happier ending, or an ending, but it doesn’t, and for those who want to continue to read this, I’m going to ruin the ending that doesn’t exist and tell you that the toilet is still not fixed, and I have not let go of the issue.  The best I can do right now is to focus on the silver lining, which, at this very moment, means something to write about; something that may sound funny now, but had me in tears two nights ago.

The toilet fill valve on my powder room toilet decided to quit, or almost quit, but it was making noise, which is never a good thing. That much I know.  When I took the video of what was going on after the flush in the back of my toilet to the hardware store, the kind gentleman who was helping me knew exactly how to fix it and showed me what to buy and how to do it, step by step, I am not mechanical.  I struggle with reading instructions and then having to figure out how to follow them.  Although he was only a toddler at the time, it was my son, Grant, who put together the Little Tykes toys and equipment that seemed to flow into our house nonstop for several years.  Even without the ability to read at the age of three, he seemed to know intuitively how the brightly colored plastic pieces fit together to form something.  I marveled.  I had mechanical envy.

As the kind hardware store man was wrapping up the explanation with me on step seven or eight, or whatever step has you giving the final check with a flush, I asked him,
“Which way does the shut-off valve go to turn the water off at the toilet?”
Sometimes it’s best to humble yourself and come clean.  He knew, at that point, who he was dealing with and backed up slowly to the beginning.
“A slow clockwise turn… that would be to your right.”

At one point, he mentioned “YouTube videos,” and that information, coupled with my new knowledge of how to shut off the water to the toilet, was all the information I needed.  I thanked him profusely, bought the $18 part, and was on my way.  I’ve got to admit that there was a tool belt that caught my eye on the way out of the store, something I’ve always wanted, but I feel like it needs to be earned, and I’m not there yet.  Maybe this was the home improvement project that I’d earn my belt on.

The idea that I could do this myself gave me a great deal of satisfaction and pride, and not having to shell out a hundred dollars to have a plumber walk through my front door made me even happier.  I’d love to be able to add fixing my toilet to my list of accomplishments.  Really.

With feelings of confidence, I lined up the pieces that came out of the box, including the instructions, on the countertop. I watched a YouTube video three times, turned the water off, drained the back tank, and disconnected the water hose from the toilet. Then I got stuck.  I couldn’t budge the plastic lug nut on the outside of the toilet, and surprisingly to me, the me who throughout my 20s used a shoe to hammer a nail into the wall, was even using the correct tool.  After about 45 minutes of struggling and torquing myself in half, I gave up, which came in the form of me sitting on my bathroom floor in tears.  I know it may not sound tear-worthy for most, but those emotions were coming from a place far deeper than the back of my now-drained toilet.  This was about doing something so small yet so big BY MYSELF, without having to ask for any help (I’m not counting the gentleman at Ace because that’s his job).  The flip side of wanting to feel that sense of accomplishment is that for the past nine years,  broken toilets, flat tires, sump pumps, birds nests in porch lights on fire and beeping house alarms have become my chore to deal with by myself, whether I wanted to or not (and that “by myself” includes calling the repairman, AAA man or handyman).  Although it’s taught me a lot, asking for help to begin with, it’s not something I’ve become comfortable with, even after nine years.

I’ve done a lot of scary things in those nine years without giving much thought to them, but a beeping alarm, a running toilet, and a flat tire require immediate attention, whether you want to give it or not.  This is the emotional spot that when I work from, I start breaking things, on accident and on purpose, so when I texted my sister, Robin, to see if her husband had a hacksaw, it was more a cry for help than anything else, even though I still think sawing the stuck lug nut off may be the answer.  He didn’t.  And so I turned out the light, closed the door, and drove to Baskin-Robbins, where I ate two scoops of Jamocha Almond Fudge ice cream on the five-minute drive home.  Enough.

The next night ended similarly, frustrated, with a lug nut that still wouldn’t move, but this time I made a half-recipe of chocolate oatmeal no-bake cookies because a whole recipe scared me.  Half recipe was a good idea, and yes, I did.

The project is still looming behind the closed door, and I fear that one more night with the same results will end with my head in a bag of Crispy Cremes, but I’m still not quite ready to let go and call a handyman.

I don’t know how many days of walking by the closed bathroom door it will take before I call for help. Still, right now, I’m standing firm in the face of the challenge and am merely giving myself a break before going back in with a different attitude or maybe different equipment, such as a hacksaw.
To be continued…

Along the same lines of my giving readers a heads up not to scroll down for the naked photos that did not exist in my “Skiing Naked” post, I need to be up front about the content to follow, which is not about past relationships, disappointments, unmet expectations, or worse, but rather is about fixing toilets.  I had hoped this post would have a happier ending, or an ending, but it doesn’t and for those who want to continue to read this, I’m going to ruin the ending that doesn’t exist and tell you that the toilet is still not fixed and I have not let go of the issue.  The best I can do right now is to focus on the silver lining, which at this very moment means stuff to write about; stuff that may sound kind of funny now but had me in tears two nights ago.

The toilet fill valve on my guest bath toilet decided to quit, or kind of quit, but it was making noise, which is never a good thing… that much I do know.  When I took the video of what was going on post flush in the back of my toilet to the hardware store, the kind gentleman who was helping me knew exactly how to fix it and showed me what to buy and what to do with it, step by step.  I am not mechanical.  I struggle with reading instructions and then having to figure out how to follow them.  Although he was only a toddler at the time, it was my son, Grant, who put together the Little Tykes toys and equipment that seemed to flow into our house non stop for several years.  Even without the ability to read at age 3, he seemed to know intuitively how the brightly colored plastic pieces fit together to make something.  I marveled.  I had mechanical envy.

As the kind hardware store man is wrapping up the explanation with me on step 7 or 8 or whatever step has you giving the final check with a flush, I asked him,

“Which way does the shut off valve go to turn the water off at the toilet?”

Sometimes it’s best to humble yourself and come clean.  He knew, at that point, who he was dealing with and backed up slowly to the beginning.

“A slow clockwise turn… that would be to your right.”

At one point he mentioned “youtube videos,” and that information, coupled with my new knowledge of knowing how to shut off the water to the toilet, was all the information I needed.  I thanked him profusely, bought the $18 part and was on my way.  I’ve got to admit that there was a tool belt that caught my eye on the way out of the store, something I’ve always wanted, but I feel like it needs to be earned and I’m not there yet.  Maybe this was the home improvement project that I’d earn my belt on.

The idea that this was something I’d be able to do myself gave me a great deal of satisfaction and pride and not having to shell out a hundred dollars (I’m guessing?) to have a plumber walk through my front door, even happier.  I’d love to be able to add fixing my toilet to my list of accomplishments.  Really.

With feelings of confidence, I lined up the pieces that came out of the box, including the instructions, on the countertop, watched a youtube video three times, turned the water off, drained the back tank, disconnected the water hose from the toilet then got stuck.  I could not even BEGIN to budge the plastic lug nut on the outside of the toilet (I don’t even know if that’s what it’s called, but that’s what I’m going to call it from here on…) and surprising to me, the me who throughout my 20’s used a clog to hammer a nail into the wall, was even using the right tool.  After about 45 minutes of struggling and torquing myself in half to get to the side of the toilet in the first place, I gave up, which came in the form of me sitting on my bathroom floor in tears.  I know it may not sound tear-worthy for most, but those emotions were coming from a place far deeper than the back of my now drained toilet.  This was about doing something so small yet so big BY MYSELF, without having to ask for any help (I’m not counting the gentleman at Ace because that’s his job).  The flip side of wanting to feel that sense of accomplishment is that for the past 9 years,  broken toilets, flat tires,  sump pumps, birds nests in porch lights on fire and beeping house alarms have become my chore to deal with by myself, whether I wanted to or not (and that “by myself” includes calling the repairman, AAA man or handyman).  Although it’s taught me a lot, asking for help to begin with, it’s not something I’ve gotten the least bit comfortable with, even after 9 years.

I’ve done a whole lot of scary things in those 9 years without giving much thought to them, but a beeping alarm, a running toilet and a flat tire requires immediate attention, whether you want to give it or not.  This is the emotional spot that when I work from I start breaking things, on accident AND on purpose so when I texted Robin to see if Jim had a hacksaw, it was more a cry for help than anything else (although I still think sawing the stuck lug nut off may be the answer).  He didn’t.  And so I turned out the light, closed the door and drove to Baskin Robbins where I ate the better part of a double scoop of jamocha almond fudge ice cream on the 5 minute drive home.  Enough.

The next night ended in a similar way… frustrated… with a lug nut that still won’t move, but this time I made a 1/2 recipe of chocolate oatmeal no bake cookies simply because a whole recipe scared me as I knew I’d likely make my way through all of them.  1/2 recipe was a good idea and yes, I did.

The project is still looming behind the closed door and I fear that one more night with the same results are going to end with my head in a bag of Crispy Cremes, but I’m still not quite ready to let go and call a handy man.

I don’t know how many days of walking by the closed bathroom door it will take before I call for help. Still, right now, I’m standing firm in the face of the challenge and am merely giving myself a break before going back in with a different attitude or maybe different equipment, such as a hacksaw.
To be continued…

.

Still with hope…

I’ve been helping my daughter, Emery, and her husband, Miles, clean, weed out, organize, and redistribute their things, which I’m learning means to take stuff out of their basement and put it in mine, in preparation to sell their house and move to Colorado. At one point, I asked Emery what she wanted me to do with her wedding dress, which looks like a white tent perched up against the wall of my upstairs cedar closet.

“Oh, I don’t know.  I should probably have it cleaned, but I really don’t care. Just leave it.”

I asked too late.  My girl, who says she doesn’t have one sentimental bone in her body, has moved on.  No doubt the day will come when she’ll be grateful for what I will likely go ahead and do, which is have the dress professionally cleaned and boxed for proper storage.  She may say she doesn’t have a sentimental bone in her body,  but I’d rephrase that to say, “she’s selective with her sentimentality and the pieces she decides to let in, she’ll carry forever.”  She just wasn’t ready to file this piece away as sentimental.  It’s too soon, or maybe too late, but years down the road, she may feel a flutter in her heart when she sees the big box wrapped in brown paper on the closet shelf… most likely my closet shelf.

I remember going through similar feelings with my wedding dress, but I made myself take care of it the day after returning home from our honeymoon because I knew if I didn’t do it then, I never would, and my white satin gown would quickly yellow, and not in a cool, tea-stained, vintage sort of way, or so I was told.  I did the research and ended up taking it to a cleaners that had been recommended to me, and for $50 I had it cleaned, wrapped in blue tissue to keep it white, boxed, and for that price, I assumed hermetically sealed.  It was a considerable investment at the time, one-tenth of what the dress cost me, but everyone I spoke with insisted I shell out the money, as I’d regret it later if I didn’t.

For 28 years, that large box wrapped in brown paper sat in the back of the cedar closet in the home my husband and I raised our kids in, until one day, when my then-future daughter-in-law, Brooke, was in town and wanted to see what my wedding dress looked like.  My husband and I had been divorced for ten years, and I had spent the afternoon at the house where we had raised our children when Brooke made the request. And just like Pandora’s box, when the box that had been sealed for the past 28 years was opened up, I never could have predicted that the most astonishing thing would not be that I could get it zipped up most of the way, but that it would be on file at the Leawood Police Department.

The promises the dry cleaners told me were upheld, and the dress looked as good as the day when I handed it over to them, except for the wrinkles, but I expected that.  I was glad Brooke asked to see it, as I never would have been inclined to open the box, even a peek, let alone a try on.  Afterwards, I brought the dress back to my house, box and all, but before I could do my best to box it up again, my daughter, Emery, wanted to have a look and try it on.  Both she and Brooke were getting married in the coming year, and although they both already had their dresses,  it was fun to be able to share this moment of my history with them.

After Emery tried on the dress and commented on it being pretty, but reminded her of Renaissance Festivals, I left the dress at the bottom of the stairs to be taken up to the cedar closet and folded back into its box when I had time.

Two days later, an unfortunate series of events unfolded, beginning with my impulsive decision to set the alarm system when I left the house, which I rarely did. I didn’t realize that the front door wasn’t completely latched when I left, and unbeknownst to me, it set off the alarm, and the police were called, while I was on my way to my exercise class. My sister was called because she’s listed as my “first call” in the event of the alarm going off. While I was twenty minutes into my exercise class, my sister, Robin, was standing on my front porch discussing the “incident” with the Leawood police.

By no means is what I’m about to say minimizing the work that the policemen do in my neighborhood or the respect I have for them, but it is a bit like Mayberry around here, and an alarm going off was noteworthy enough that two cars and four officers showed up to the scene.  Of course, Robin could not enter the house once she arrived,  as it was still considered a possible crime scene, although they said it didn’t look like there had been a break-in, as my computer was still on my bed, as well as some jewelry on the nightstand.

They did mention one thing to her, though, that they found a bit odd and wondered if she could make sense of it. There was a wedding gown on the floor at the bottom of the stairs….  Did she know anything about a wedding gown?
At that moment, as Robin related this story to me, I realized that just a few paces away from the wedding gown heap was something else they had seen but chose not to mention: a half-dozen empty wine bottles next to my sink.  I had gathered them up to recycle, and although they were in close proximity to the gown, the two had absolutely no way, no how,  anything to do with each other.  Robin, of course, knew nothing of the dress but told the officers she was sure it was nothing.  It was, however, her first question to me, which went something like this:
“Please tell me that you don’t put your wedding dress on at night and drink wine…”
I know there’s a big ole moral of the story in here somewhere, maybe something to do with following through with projects, being mindful when doing important things such as setting the house alarm or perhaps it’s taking care of the 2nd wedding dress in my upstairs closet so it, also, doesn’t end up in a photo in my file down at the station.  But the moral I like to think about is that maybe my string of carelessness offered a bit of comic relief to a few of  Leawood’s police officers, and a good story to take back to the station.

I continue to be hopeful that the officers on duty that day don’t sigh in pity when they drive by the house on High Drive where circumstantial evidence would have me traipsing around in a wrinkled mess of a wedding dress, most likely stained with wine… the Miss Havisham of Leawood, if you will.  Maybe I should covet the incident that gave an otherwise quiet police department an unexpected laugh that morning.

Hours after the “incident,”  the wrinkled mess of a dress was mashed right back into its box and put it on the shelf in the cedar closet, with plenty of room next to it for Emery’s eventually cleaned and boxed-up dress. Years down the road, it will be her adventure, not mine, if and when she decides to break the seal to see what’s inside, hopefully without police intervention.

Police files are confidential… this is the best I could do…