Adventures In Plumbing

The Cigarillo is getting tired of diapers.   He's a smart cookie and figured out quick enough what a toilet is for and after that, it's been off to the races ever since.  I have to listen very, very carefully when I'm vacuuming or, as was the case yesterday, attempting to put away/gain control of our increasing mound of clean clothes.  If I hear the familiar 'rip' of a diaper coming off, I have to move my ass and hustle him into the bathroom otherwise, it'll be piss on the floor!

And while I've got nothing against piss on the floor- after all, the dogs have done it a time or two, I'd just prefer not to clean it up unless I absolutely have too.

Yesterday though, we made the decision to move to training pants.   There was a half-hour period, where I was folding laundry, bouncing back and forth between Arsenal v Liverpool in the bedroom and Iowa v Wisconsin in the living room (yes, I've become that person apparently.  No apologies- even if only one of my teams managed to win) where he literally ripped his pants right off about a half dozen times.  I'd dutifully hustle him into the bathroom:  he'd squirt out some piss, hop off, flush and then run into his room where he performed his allotment of one spider monkey/Evel Knievel jump from his toddler bed to the floor before we'd put diaper and pants back on and the process would repeat itself.

Now don't get me wrong:  if the laundry would have been under control, I would have been okay with it.  I just needed like fifteen minutes to get Laundry Mountain back down to something manageable and everything would have been copasetic.  My chi would have remained balanced, my mood groovy as ever.   But as soon as I got back into the bedroom, I'd barely have time to fold a single article of clothing before he'd be at it again.

And there's the rub.  I can't exactly lose my shit over the kid wanting to go use the big potty, can I?  That's counterproductive.  And yet I about did lose my shit and I hate it when I do that.  I feel like a failure because really, if I take a breath and think about it, at the back of my mind, I know he's almost 2 years old and he really doesn't know any better.  And yet it's just one of those ARRRRRRGH type moments because, well-  laundry!  Sigh.  It wasn't my finest hour but I pushed through.  He squirted out what should have been one long pee into about twelve different parts and then he was fine for awhile.   Arsenal went up 2-0 on Liverpool.  Iowa's inability to put the ball in the endzone continued.  Laundry Mountain because Laundry Hill and then Laundry Mound.   Life was good.

Then the Missus came home and attempted to fix the toilet.   It's needed new guts for awhile now and The Cigarillo's insistent on flushing every individual turd and waving goodbye as it swirls down the potty has helped neither our water bill nor our beleaguered toilet.  So one productive day, I went to Menard's, found some new guts and the Missus took advantage of my presence to take a good whack at getting them in there.

(But wait-  isn't Father Cigar an engineering professor?   Why aren't you doing the toilet stuff and she folding the laundry?   First of all:  hetereonormative gender roles are for pussies.  (LOL.  I think that would be a good t-shirt.)  She hates laundry, I don't mind it.  She hates vacuuming.  I don't mind it.  She loves picking up dog shit/cat shit/gardening, I hate it.  But I don't mind mowing or snowblowing.  And in general she's better at tinkering while I'm just not.  Second of all:  Father Cigar is a Civil Engineering Professor that teaches courses on Winter Highway Maintenance and things like The Singularity.   Hate to say it-- but Mother Cigar is the one that uses the table saw in the family.)

She failed in her attempt and now we're in the market for a new toilet.   She checked the Menard's website and reported to me via text that we might have to hold off on the new toilet for awhile as the cheapest she could find was $200.

Read that again.  Go on, I'll wait.

Yes, $200!  For a fucking toilet.   After I had finished shitting a brick/having a mild stroke, I checked the website and found out that indeed it was true- but, more horrifyingly, this existed.   If you don't want to click on the link, I'll tell you:  it's a $614 toilet.

Yes, that's right.  A six hundred and fourteen dollar fucking toilet.   Who in their right minds would spend that much on a damn toilet?  And don't tell me it's to save water--  that's one hell of a fucking mark-up just to save a penny or two on your damn water bill.    For six hundred dollars the damn thing better massage my ass, wipe it and come with NFL Sunday Ticket, a mini fridge and a fully stocked wet bar.

So now we're in the market for a toilet and a plumber to install it for us- and you can bet your ass I won't be paying two hundred fucking dollars for one.  (I found immediate relief from Home Depot-  their website popped with one for $88 right away.   Phew!)