After my spider killing spree (hey, eight legs make it a spree), I got a serious case of woman-balls and decided to attack something that has been plaguing my family: the toilet seat.
Yes, our toilet seat has been a frightening place to perch these past few months. The things that hold the seat onto the toilet (they have a technical name, but that comes later) constantly come loose, and if you sit down on the seat and your butt cheeks are just a little askew, the seat slips and you fall off. (Yep, can't imagine why my mother and mother-in-law call our house a death trap.)
Even worse, every time I've asked Chuck to fix it, he's sighed like it was some major undertaking.
It was these heavy-winded sighs that have kept me from asking what the job actually entailed. He had me thinking there were multiple tools involved. A blow torch maybe? Surely spackle or lube. Perhaps a toilet troll whose favor we needed to win?
The sighs were so bad I even started apologizing before I asked him for his services.
"Honey, I hate to ask again but could you possibly—please?—fix the toilet again? My mother fell off and hit her head mid-stream. She's, um, covered in urine and crying. Pretty please?"
Then, yesterday morning, after Chuck went to work, Junior called to me from the bathroom to say that the seat was sliding around again.
I decided to take matters into my own hands.
"Stand aside, Junior."
I lifted up the white things behind the seat. I expected to find a labyrinth of gizmos and gadgets—or a mouse spinning on a wheel at least—but no, there were just...screws. Plain old screws.
I felt underneath the screws, just to make sure I wasn't missing something. A piece that needed to be soddered perhaps? A locker padlock? Something! There had to be something more than screws to make my handyman husband sigh so!
Just two plain old screws.
I grabbed a....screwdriver.
Then I held the bottom of the screw while tightening the screw's head. I did this until the damn thing wouldn't move anymore.
Approximate duration of repair: 30 seconds.
"Jump on," I told Junior. He did. "Now wiggle for me." He did that too.
The seat didn't budge.
The easy conclusion to draw here is that when we take matters into our own hands, it is quite liberating to discover we can reach a solution all by ourselves. QUITE. The not-so-easy conclusions have been running through my mind like a broken record for the last two days:
"That's it? Why the sighs? That's it? Just screws? That's it? Why the sighs? That's it? Just screws?"
Chuck, I'm calling you out on this blog. You have one day to respond. Ok, two, since tomorrow's a holiday.
(Happy 4th of July!)
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.