A slight plumbing problem

There are half a million stories in this casually-dressed city. About fifty of those stories are in my notebook, waiting to be typed into the blog, but this afternoon I'm too lazy to write 'em. 

Instead you get scraps. This is all the stuff that's barely (or not even) worth writing about. 

There's better stuff than this coming soon, though. Promise.

♦ ♦ ♦  

When my flatmate Dean poops, I'd rather not know about it. His bowel movements are of no interest to me. Quite frequently, though, I am forced to ponder his defecations.

The toilet seat was OK at 11 this morning, with only a few smudges of brown at the back. By my return at 1:30, Essence du Dean was all along both sides of the seat. Which means that today, at some time between 11 and 1:30, Dean came into the john, sat on the toilet seat, spread his cheeks, and shat, leaving his cream and leg hairs on the toilet seat.

Always, cream and leg hairs.

He usually shits mid-day, at least on days when he's not working. Mid-day is when the cream and leg hairs appear.

Again, my knowledge of Dean doing his business is knowledge I'd rather not have, but it's forced upon me. There's no not noticing the toilet seat.

Worse, being old with sometimes unpredictable bowels, sometimes I need to poop in a hurry, but after Dean's used the toilet I can't simply close the door and sit myself down, no sir. I need to yank some TP, dip it in the toilet water (everyone in the house is good about flushing), and spend half a minute buffing the seat, then drying the seat, before seating myself.

Even worse than the worst, sometimes when the layer of cream and hair is not terribly thick, or only on a small section of the seat, I simply sit on it, and do what I came to do. 

Gotta laugh, I say to myself. Sometimes I say "Gotta laugh" louder, without actually saying it, trying to talk myself into it... when what I really want to do is strangle that creamy-legged bastard.

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A week or so ago, I was whining that Domino's Pizza is a rip-off. Late last year, I wrote pretty much the same thing, but I'd forgotten writing it.

I've become the senior citizen who repeats himself and doesn't even know it. I've become my mother.

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One day a few months ago, a slight plumbing problem shut the water off, all across Millionaires' Island. Its 25,000 residents were asked to conserve water, skip showering today, etc. Since I worked on the island, the news caught my attention.

Later, everyone at work received an urgent email — it said "urgent," right in the header — from the real estate company that owns the building, asking all tenants to please conserve water. By 'later', though, I mean the day after the crisis.

The "urgent" email arrived about 30 hours after it might have done some good, and several hours after I'd read elsewhere that the problem had been fixed, and water was flowing through the island's pipes again.

It confused me for a moment. The problem is over, and they're just finding out that there even was a problem?

"What a bunch of boobs" is the obvious takeaway here, but there's a deeper meaning. It's a lesson that took many years for me to learn, but I've seen it many times and so have you:

Whatever the topic, whoever the professionals are, if you expect competence, don't expect much of it. Often you'll get no competence at all.

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It's possible there's something to be said in favor of shrimp with the tail still on, in certain scenarios so far-fetched as to defy imagination. My preference is for tail-off, same as the plastic wrapper should be removed before eating store-bought cheesecake.

Once breaded, it's impossible get the tail off without making a mess, so only someone demented could claim to want the scaly tail attached, beneath the breading, in a shrimp product manufactured for quick, convenient baking or microwaving.

Well, Gorton's Southern-Style frozen shrimp is great if you're demented. You'll be choking and pulling fins from your mouth all through dinner. Also, the very fake "Southern-Style" seasoning is nasty.

7/1/2023   

 itsdougholland.com
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