Uneasy Lies the Butt that Breaks the Throne

I am pleased to report that my caulking repair in the tub did hold perfectly. I was sure the thing was going to fall off the wall the next time I touched it, but it didn’t.

Wednesday a week and a half ago, I spent the evening, along with many other people, at the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition office stuffing bags to be handed out on Bike to Work Day at the various “energizer stations.” The following night I went to a Bike Coalition outreach training, which provided useful tips for trying to build our ranks, plus specific info we would need for BTWD.

Friday morning of that week, I was ensconced on the throne thinking the profound thoughts for which I am known, such as “Why don’t I ever see Kirk Hammett drive by in his car?”, when there was an ominous cracking sound. Sure enough, my wooden toilet seat had split. My first thought was that I would just replace it myself, so I wouldn’t have to deal with my uncivil building manager or the landlord, but I couldn't get it off, so I had to email my landlord after all.

In the course of getting out my big screwdriver—it was in my tool box, which has my blender and the mother lode of cheese puffs on top of it; it’s also behind both bicycles—I knocked over one of my bikes, scaring Hammett terribly. That’s his least favorite sound, and it caused him to take cover underneath the blankets on the bed, where he was still often to be found by the middle of the following week.

I was going to ask the landlord to let me know when “the person” would be coming to replace the toilet seat so I could clean the bathroom prior to that. “When is the person coming to replace the toilet seat?” is but one of the excellent things you get to say when you’re a renter. (When you stop being a renter, there is no longer “the person” but only your own self to do that, plus everything else, plus pay for it.) Then I decided that if it was that important to me not to have anyone see it had been months since I'd cleaned the bathroom, I should just for goodness’ sake clean it, so I did. While I was doing this (all before leaving for work that morning), I knocked something off the windowsill which broke the sink’s porcelain cold water tap, a lovely item that had probably been in place for decades.

So then I had to email the landlord again to tell her I’d broken her vintage fixture. A few minutes later, Tom came over and got the toilet seat off with no problem; I hadn't noticed there was a nut
underneath. If I only had looked a little harder—the story of my life—I would not have had to mention it to the landlord at all, I would not have cleaned the bathroom unnecessarily, I would not have scared the bejesus out of Hammett and I would not have broken the tap.

My coworker Emily agreed on the phone a bit later that it did sound like there were some lessons to be drawn from this experience.

The landlord said she would send along a handle and that maybe Tom could put it on, since plumbers cost $150 an hour. That seemed reasonable, and Tom even offered to go get the part himself. But after four trips to the hardware store with no luck, it was starting to strike me as a bit much, even though Tom, being himself, would probably have gone back to the hardware store ten more times, so I emailed the landlord to say we weren’t having much luck, and she said she’d see what she could find.

On Friday night a bit over a week ago, I saw The New World. The music stood out as being not very good, but the movie was kind of clever in that it gave me an experience similar to the lead character's. In fact, I’m still kind of waiting for Colin Farrell to come back.

On Saturday, I sewed a shirt, except for the buttons, buttonholes and pocket. It took me about eleven hours, and I think it’s way too big, but it was a good learning experience, so I will go ahead and finish it. I finally figured out that part of the reason my sewing machine has so many problems is the use of bobbins that are the wrong size. Prior to that, I was thinking it was time for a new machine, but now maybe all I need to do is get the zigzag fixed. It won’t zigzag any more. It used to.

My new driver’s license arrived in the mail, much sooner than I’d expected. I was quite pleased with the photo. I think it looks better than the previous one, from ten years ago, in which I look unformed. “Like an egg,” offered my mother. Just so. It wasn’t just my imagination that the new photo is good, either; the first person to see it—a clerk at Rainbow—said, “Nice photo.”

Last Sunday, Mother’s Day, I sang my mother “Happy Mother’s Day” to the tune of “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy”: “Happy muh-huh-huther’s day-ay, happy happy mother’s day! Happy mother’s day, it’s mother’s day, ha-happy muh-huther’s day-ay …” The honoree attempted to interrupt this tribute at some point, thus jeopardizing her chances of a repeat performance next year—perhaps that was the point—but I sang on lustily.

After that I cooked lentil soup, and in the evening I went to Eugene’s.