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| Jude's portrait of stressed out Mama. The "lines" above my eyes are my worry wrinkles. |
"Are you paranoid?" Jeffrey the plumber asks me, this fine Sunday evening of Memorial Day Weekend. We are standing in my bedroom bathroom at 9:30 p.m. watching the drain spin it's clear water like a delicate top, a sight that typically pleases a plumber.
Okay. I know what some of you are thinking. But bear with me; remember: I'm not paranoid, I'm Jewish.
"No," I answered a little too quickly. I searched the plumber's lips for a smile, uncertain if he is accustomed to asking such things to total strangers with a straight face. "I mean, not really..." I didn't tell him that earlier in the day I dragged Jude to the only service station open on Memorial Day Sunday so I could get my fluids checked. "Has it been running clunky?" the service guy asked.
"No," I admitted. "It just has a funny smell."
"Has it been making a 'eeeeerrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiii' sort of sound when you turn?"
"No," I said. "Again. Just the smell."
"Well, it looks good to me!" he said, slamming the trunk.
"Really? Are you sure? Safe to drive?"
"Yup."
He explained the funny smell, but I don't remember the exact terms he used. Knowing Odelle, my Hyundai, has a leak in her tranny box (case?) (which I manage with routine level checks), I am always suspicious. But no, I didn't tell Jeffery the plumber.
It's not that I wanted Roto Rooter to show up at 9 pm; I called at 3 pm requesting an appointment on David's recommendation who is likely tired of me calling him up for every thing gone wrong or suspicious-acting in families mechanical, pipe, electric, handy, computer, etc. To make a long story short, Friday night my toilet downstairs overflowed. After that, it's all a little hazy. Somehow I had turned it into a disaster in my mind. Likely because the car was also acting up. Likely because I have memories of Ma cursing at all the machines in a panic when we were kids.
"So call Roto Rooter," Dada said.
After tinkering in that little box of water with all the flushing parts atop the toilet, Jeffrey the plumber asked me what the problem was. "It's flushing just fine," he said, watching the bowl fill and swirl clean. After that we ran the kitchen faucet. "This is beautiful," he said. "Is it not draining fast?" I leaned in. "I guess so," I admitted. "It's just that it clogs sometimes."
"Does it make a 'glunk glunk glunk' sound and then gurgle?" he asked.
"I don't think so," I said. He filled it all the way up again, just to be sure. Sure enough, it was starting to clog. "See!" I said.
"I put the stopper in," he explained.
"Oh. Well... it looks like that when it drains slow," I reasoned.
He shone his flashlight under the sink, searching.
I stood around not knowing what to do. I felt guilty that nothing was acting wrong. "Okay. Let me know if you need anything...Would you like a glass of water?"
"No," came his hard answer from under the sink. Then it occurred to me he might of thought I was making a wise crack. What kind of an idiot offers a plumber water? At least I didn't offer him a plum.
I retreated into the dining room.
I obediently followed him from sink to toilet upstairs where he proceeded to flush the toilets, run the water a bit in the sinks, and command me to "come over here."
"Yes?" I said, a half-folded pair of Two-Cute-Face's shorts in hand.
"Are you seeing how this water is draining like a top?" I peered, once again, over the tub and into the emptying drain.
"Is that how you can tell it's all good?" I asked. "If the water goes down like a top?"
"There's nothing wrong here, Roxanne," he said, "this is how you want sinks and tubs to behave." Clearly he'd seen his fair share of rebel plumbing and this was not it. The pride he felt for my well behaved pipes caused me to view the flowing water as a work of art. How had it gone unappreciated for so long?
"Are you paranoid?" he then asked.
"You mean we don't have to do the sewer line thing?" I asked, having no clue really what that meant. After talking to David, I just assumed something involving the sewer or the "main," or whatever would be inevitable.
"I'm not even going to charge you," he said, and headed downstairs and out.
I am often accused, often by me, of living in a dreamworld because I am so far out-of-touch with how things work. Similarly, I am awful with directions, prefixes, and spacial relations. I am relentlessly hard on myself about this. True, it's consoling knowing the upside to this dysfunction is high creativity, but creativity doesn't help when you are lost two blocks from home.
And true, I have been called "paranoid," though I prefer the term neurotic. It's endearing.
So, come on. Cheer me up. You must have a story like this. What brings out the paranoia/neurotic in you? What in this world do you simply not get? What is your mechanical-mind disaster story? Plumber story?
And lastly, my neurosis tend to flare when I need a good vacation. Some time to shake off the superfluous, get out of the city, have some fun, and be peaceful. That's why I'm going for the very first time to Madeline Island in September. Won't you join me?
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