Okay, so I wasn’t thigh high.  I was more like ankle deep, but the sh*t was real and it was flowing…right out of my toilet on to the floor.

 

I panicked.  I called the maintenance people who I am told are supposed to maintain things.  The guy came upstairs and said, “Oh, no.  You have to call a plumber.”

 

I called a plumber when there was a knock at the door.  I opened it and a lady screamed at me in broken English:

 

“De water.  De water.  My walls, de light.  Oh, my gawd!”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, but see, I have it all toweled up here.  It should no longer be coming down and thankfully the guys have turned off the water.  That means no more overflow and I have a plumber on the way,” I said with compassion.

 

“De water.  De water.  Sh*t-balls.  And why you bangin’?”

 

“What?” I asked.  “Banging?”

 

“You bangin’ all de time.  I hear you plumbing and bangin’ all around.  I have proof, I have proof!”

 

“What?” I said.  “There’s no bangin’.  We work all day…Wifesy is never here and I write – quietly – but I haven’t been here over the last three weeks as I’ve been working a job out of the house…”

 

“No, you bang.  YOU BANG.  I HEAR YOU BANG.  ALL NIGHT LONG!”

 

Okay, does she mean banging in another way…like “She bangs” – maybe like the Ricky Martin song…

 

“There’s no banging.  Wait, you mean like banging with a hammer?”

 

“Yes, you bang with a hammer on the pipes.  On the walls.  You bang.  YOU BANG.”

 

“Okay, there’s no banging.  We’ve hung up a couple pictures, but that’s it,” I said.

 

“I know it’s you.  I know.  I call landlord many times.  She never call me back.”

 

“Lady, we just moved in here,” I said.

 

“I know it’s you.  I have proofs.  You bang.  You water.”

 

“Yes, me water.  Me, NO bang.”

 

Wait a second, just why in the feck am I talking like Pocahontas right now?!  Oh, because this woman is cray-cray and she’s driving me feckin’ loon-loon.

 

“Me, no, bang-bang. Me have outhouse problem. You fix Colin Farrell? Then we bang-bang?”

 

So, the woman called the landlord.  Meanwhile, I called the landlord, the maintenance guys, Wifesy, the realtor, the landlord, and the feckin’ cavalry.

 

Wifesy calls me back.  “Hun,” she says.  “The landlord called me and said the woman downstairs has photos of us putting wipeys and plastic bags down the toilet.  Do you know anything about that?”

 

YES, yes, I know a lot about it, hun!  I’m ankle deep in sh*t right now.  The plumber is yelling at the maintenance guy and the maintenance guy is yelling at the plumber.  Sophie’s Choice just came upstairs and screamed at me about the toilet and banging.  And, wait, what is this about plastic bags and wipeys?  We don’t throw plastic bags down there!  For god’s sake we use reusable canvas bags for shopping and yes, I used a goddermned wipey.  But, it was a septic tank safe one that disintegrates when it touches water.  And what business is it of Sophie’s Choice what I wipe my a** with??!!  Do I need to get Sophie’s Choice to sign off when I wipe my goddermned ass??!!!

 

And with that, Wifesy fell out laughing.  “Okay, we’ll go for margaritas tonight,” she said.

 

“What?” I responded catching my breath.

 

“You’ve dealt with enough today.  So, tonight I’m buying you margaritas,” she smiled through the phone.

 

And that…that, my friends – is one of the many reasons why I love my Wifesy.

 

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Sweet Mother is updated even while the sh*t hits the fan (or the floor) around me because I love you.  If you love me, you’ll share this piece or hit the “follow” button at the top of the page.

 

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Photo credits:  toiletonfire, indian-lady

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