I’m fast arriving at the conclusion that my husband and I need to start communicating with each other in some kind of secret code, because I’m pretty sure that all of our conversations are being tapped. Not by another person, but by all the appliances, bath fixtures, and automobiles that surround us.
Because last week my husband had to go on a business trip, again, and as soon as he was out the door and on the plane, something broke in our house-again.
I don’t understand how they are able to time these things so perfectly. I can only imagine that, late at night when all the mammals are asleep, they call together their little coven of destruction for a planning meeting.
“Hey,” hisses the ice maker, pretending to form cubes, “he’s leaving again tomorrow. What’re we gonna do this time?”
“Hm,” muses my laptop. “How about mysterious brown goo seeping out of the washing machine?”
“No, we did that one already.”
“I know!” yells the kitchen faucet triumphantly. “How about a inexplicable loss of power affecting only the back 3 rooms of the house, leaving her uncertain as to whether or not everything is fine, or whether or not the house is only minutes away from exploding in a Giant Fireball Of Death?”
“Nope, did that one too.”
“Tiny lizard head popping up under her ottoman at the moment his plane lands in another state?”
“Exploding transmission as she’s hurtling down I-85?”
“Well we tried to do that,” says the ice maker, shooting a dark glance in the direction of the garage, “but when it happened he was with her and he took care of everything. So, no more car plans.”
(The Explorer hangs its head in shame.)
And on and on it goes.
But this time they crossed the line, because this time, THIS TIME, they went after my bathtub.
And of all the appliances and fixtures we have here in our house, the bathtub is the one thing that has helped keep me sane and brought me some measure of relief during this season of excruciating pain. I REALLY NEED MY TUB.
That is why, when the mysterious hissing noise began, I was unable to deal with the possibility that something was wrong with my beloved bathtub. So instead I fell back on my Number One Rule For Dealing With Life:
“When in doubt ignore it, because it’s probably not as bad as you think it is; plus, it will probably go away on its own.”
Incidentally, this is the reason I’m no longer allowed to be by myself, alone and unsupervised, when my husband goes out of town on business. Which means we have a lot of conversations like this:
My husband: “So my mom will be here tomorrow afternoon, and will stay with you until I get back on Friday.”
Me: “You know, I was going to tell you that I really don’t need your mom to come down after all, because I was sure that I was a lot better.”
My husband: “Oh, really?”
Me: “Yeah. But then I was too tired to put the ice packs back in the freezer all by myself, and so I’ve spent all afternoon waiting for you to get home so that I could get some new ice for my joints. So then I thought, maybe I won’t tell him that after all.”
My husband (exhibiting an HEROIC ability to control his sarcasm): “Good thought.”
It’s just that I have such a hard time being in so much pain so often, and so lots of things (such as The Truth) get a little garbled between the time I experience them and the time I express them to other people.
Some people refer to this as, “being a lying sack of shit,” which is often the case. But I don’t think that’s the only explanation. I think that part of the problem is also that, somewhere along the line, my measure of what is reasonable and unreasonable got a little skewed, and is not actually scaled for humans, but rather matches up to some other kind of creature, like a woolly mammoth, perhaps, or a velociraptor.
This is the only thing I can think of that could possibly explain why I endured severe diarrhea and dehydration FOR TWELVE DAYS last year before seeking medical attention, because, to my mind, it was “probably not a big deal.” (“Well, stegosaurus wouldn’t go to the doctor for something silly like this.”)
Happily, I found a plumber who made emergency house calls, much to the chagrin of all my appliances (“T Rex wouldn’t have called a plumber for something as silly as this!”), my husband was able to fix the water damage, and we’re down to about 4% remaining musty smell. Which has freed up tons more time for me to grossly overestimate my level of wellness, and concoct completely insane plans for how to spend my days (“Hey, you know what sounds like fun? Triathlons!”).
But first, I could really use a nice, hot bath.