I Think That Squealing Sound Coming From The Pipes Was A Warning
One of the highlights of Alex's young life is to get to take a bath in his mama and daddy's tub - what he calls "the big tub." And for the last couple of weeks, he's been in a "big tub" kind of mood, wanting me to fill it up with piles of bubbles and loads of toys so that he can sit in there until he resembles a 40 inch, lily-white prune. I've been happy to oblige him.
Last night after I washed his hair and saw that the tub was full enough, I tried to cut off the water. But no matter how hard I turned the knobs, I couldn't get the water to stop. I'd get it down to a trickle, but I couldn't cut it off completely. So, I did what any self-respecting Southern woman would do: I shrugged my shoulders, figured it couldn't run forever, and told Alex to enjoy it. He said, "It's like raindrops, Mama?" And I said, "That's exactly right, buddy. Raindrops."
I mean, if the child is entertained....
Anyway, after Alex went to sleep I casually mentioned to David that by the way I hadn't been able to turn off the water in our bathroom, and let me just tell y'all: he could. not. stand. it. Dripping water? In HIS house? Oh no ma'am.
NO MA'AM.
So while I continued to sit right here, just a clickety-click-clicking on the keyboard, D. started marching back and forth from his tool box in the laundry room to the bathroom to the basement to the bathroom to the laundry room - he had to have this wrench or this screwdriver or this contraption made from the finest amalgamated metal so that he could Stop The Dripping Water, because how in the world could he ever go to sleep knowing that there was water dripping? For the love of pete, HOW?
And about 10 minutes into our little home repair extravaganza, I heard the words no wife wants to hear when her husband is trying to fix something:
"HEY! I NEED YOU IN HERE! I'M GOING TO NEED YOUR HELP!"
Those are never, ever good words. Especially when expressed with a sense of urgency.
They were necessary words, as it turned out, because I walked in the bathroom to find that Old Faithful had apparently migrated from Wyoming and taken up residence right here in Alabama - beneath our very bathroom, in fact.
Water. EVERYWHERE.
David quickly asked me if I'd press down on what used to be one of the knobs on the tub to try to hold back the geyser while he ran to the basement to cut off the water altogether. And after about 2 seconds of fulfilling my assigned task, I realized that what he should have asked was, "Hey. Will you please place your hands on this piece of metal that boasts Ginsu knife-like sharpness and then lean on it with all of your weight in the hopes of stopping the water that is rushing through our pipes with the force of all nature? Would you do that for me, bride of mine?"
Fortunately he got the water turned off, and I was initally pretty relieved, but then the realization that the water was turned off meant that I suddenly had to use the bathroom like I had never needed to use the bathroom before. But, um, what to do?
Well, if you're me, you figure you'll call a plumber in the morning. And then you head back to the computer and finish answering emails. Just a portrait of concern, I was. The epitome of it, really.
But if you're David, you embark on A Mission to Conquer The Faucet, Part Deux. And sure enough, he found some o-ring thingamajig in some dark corner of his toolbox, was able to put the cold water knob back together, and do you know what? He fixed it. He DID.
Now I'm not sure if y'all have ever taken the time to really observe a man when he tackles a challenging home repair without having to go to Home Depot or Lowe's and ask for assistance, but I am fairly certain that my husband's chest expanded to two inches beyond its normal size. And I believe he may have pounded said chest with his fists. And I'm quite certain that I heard him growl.
About thirty minutes after our waterlogged ordeal, I told D. that I was very glad that he was here when it happened, because if I had been alone I would have just shut off the water and climbed in the car and headed to a hotel.
He grinned at me and said, "So WHERE exactly would you go in this house to cut off all the water?"
And without missing a beat I oh-so-sassily said, "Down to your office. Behind that little door on the wall."
He was noticeably impressed that I knew this critical piece of information.
But what he doesn't know is that the only reason I had the foggiest idea where to turn off the water is because about an hour before, when he was trying to plug up our personal Old Faithful, he very plainly said, "I'm glad all I have to do to turn off the water is to go down to my office since the valve is behind that little door on the wall" [emphasis mine, of course].
Otherwise I wouldn't have had a clue.
The menfolk come in pretty handy, don't they?
Last night after I washed his hair and saw that the tub was full enough, I tried to cut off the water. But no matter how hard I turned the knobs, I couldn't get the water to stop. I'd get it down to a trickle, but I couldn't cut it off completely. So, I did what any self-respecting Southern woman would do: I shrugged my shoulders, figured it couldn't run forever, and told Alex to enjoy it. He said, "It's like raindrops, Mama?" And I said, "That's exactly right, buddy. Raindrops."
I mean, if the child is entertained....
Anyway, after Alex went to sleep I casually mentioned to David that by the way I hadn't been able to turn off the water in our bathroom, and let me just tell y'all: he could. not. stand. it. Dripping water? In HIS house? Oh no ma'am.
NO MA'AM.
So while I continued to sit right here, just a clickety-click-clicking on the keyboard, D. started marching back and forth from his tool box in the laundry room to the bathroom to the basement to the bathroom to the laundry room - he had to have this wrench or this screwdriver or this contraption made from the finest amalgamated metal so that he could Stop The Dripping Water, because how in the world could he ever go to sleep knowing that there was water dripping? For the love of pete, HOW?
And about 10 minutes into our little home repair extravaganza, I heard the words no wife wants to hear when her husband is trying to fix something:
"HEY! I NEED YOU IN HERE! I'M GOING TO NEED YOUR HELP!"
Those are never, ever good words. Especially when expressed with a sense of urgency.
They were necessary words, as it turned out, because I walked in the bathroom to find that Old Faithful had apparently migrated from Wyoming and taken up residence right here in Alabama - beneath our very bathroom, in fact.
Water. EVERYWHERE.
David quickly asked me if I'd press down on what used to be one of the knobs on the tub to try to hold back the geyser while he ran to the basement to cut off the water altogether. And after about 2 seconds of fulfilling my assigned task, I realized that what he should have asked was, "Hey. Will you please place your hands on this piece of metal that boasts Ginsu knife-like sharpness and then lean on it with all of your weight in the hopes of stopping the water that is rushing through our pipes with the force of all nature? Would you do that for me, bride of mine?"
Fortunately he got the water turned off, and I was initally pretty relieved, but then the realization that the water was turned off meant that I suddenly had to use the bathroom like I had never needed to use the bathroom before. But, um, what to do?
Well, if you're me, you figure you'll call a plumber in the morning. And then you head back to the computer and finish answering emails. Just a portrait of concern, I was. The epitome of it, really.
But if you're David, you embark on A Mission to Conquer The Faucet, Part Deux. And sure enough, he found some o-ring thingamajig in some dark corner of his toolbox, was able to put the cold water knob back together, and do you know what? He fixed it. He DID.
Now I'm not sure if y'all have ever taken the time to really observe a man when he tackles a challenging home repair without having to go to Home Depot or Lowe's and ask for assistance, but I am fairly certain that my husband's chest expanded to two inches beyond its normal size. And I believe he may have pounded said chest with his fists. And I'm quite certain that I heard him growl.
About thirty minutes after our waterlogged ordeal, I told D. that I was very glad that he was here when it happened, because if I had been alone I would have just shut off the water and climbed in the car and headed to a hotel.
He grinned at me and said, "So WHERE exactly would you go in this house to cut off all the water?"
And without missing a beat I oh-so-sassily said, "Down to your office. Behind that little door on the wall."
He was noticeably impressed that I knew this critical piece of information.
But what he doesn't know is that the only reason I had the foggiest idea where to turn off the water is because about an hour before, when he was trying to plug up our personal Old Faithful, he very plainly said, "I'm glad all I have to do to turn off the water is to go down to my office since the valve is behind that little door on the wall" [emphasis mine, of course].
Otherwise I wouldn't have had a clue.
The menfolk come in pretty handy, don't they?
posted by boomama at 7/15/2006 11:07:00 AM
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