For months, our downstairs toilet has been plunged more times than it’s successfully flushed. After the first couple of weeks, you’d think we’d call the plumber, but no. Its like we accepted the fact that we just had a crappy crapper, and like any well loved, oft used household…appliance…is that even the right word? Well, we just came to accept that the porcelain throne required a little extra love. A jiggle of the handle here, a kick there, several goes with the plunger, and then bob’s your uncle, TA-DA! A successful flush.
Despite the fact that we have free access to a maintenance team thanks to the privatized housing here on beautiful MacDill AFB,
we I (who else would call?) kept blowing off making a call in our friendly neighborhood plumber. We chalked it up to poor water pressure, or a picky flusher-ma-thing, and designated that the toilet downstairs was specifically reserved for number ones and light to moderate toilet paper use.
I hate calling out maintenance unless I can make a multipurpose request. It just so happened that I needed the Orkin Dude/Dudette to do some bug blocking and our fridge filter needed replacing, so I figured I was justified in calling in and throwing on the toilet issue request for good measure. Why not get it checked out, right? Couldn’t hurt, even though I KNEW it wouldn’t result in a find.
When our maintenance tech showed up, I thanked him for coming and led him to the offending commode. I made a backhand comment that I thought the water pressure wasn’t kicking or whatever, and left him to his duty…HA HA HA…can’t even keep a straight face on that one. You know you’re laughing.
I have a tendency to try fade into the background and give professionals their space when working on the home, and it just so happened I was on the phone with To My Girlfriends (a fellow blogger and all around awesome chica), so I hopped on to the patio to finish my call. Just as we ended our call, I caught our maintenance dude on the way out of the bathroom. He kindly stated that the problem was solved and the toilet is back in working order.
I immediately flashed a winning smile, thanked him profusely, and then the curiosity got to me…like within milliseconds. I innocently asked, “What was the problem, by the way?”
“Paper clips,” he responded as he tilted his pro-plumber bucket (I guess? Is there a technical term for that?) towards me, and in the foul water I saw a brand new plastic box of paper clips. Paper clips. Paper. Clips.
Now, I know La Rubia has a fascination with both my office supplies (located under my desk) and the toilet, as in she liked to play with my office supplies and splash in the toilet water. However, I always believed those undesireable and consistently corrected behaviors to be MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE from each other.
I had no idea that she’d taken to combining her hobbies, much to my dismay, and subsequent embarrassment.
All I could muster was, “Oh, so that’s where those went,” as I sheepishly raised my eyes from the bucket. And, in my lamest parent moment, as my angel was enjoying her afternoon nap, I pointed the finger at my 2 year old. “Yeah, my daughter did that.”
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