There’s nothing like
A knowing hand
To tame the tempest’s
When life or death
Her skin was white and smooth and I must admit her curves were not unpleasant to the touch but, she was cold, and hard, and clammy and, though my arm curled gently around her as my face drew uncomfortably near, this was an intimacy that was unnatural; almost forbidden; but I had to press on; I had to fix that blasted…toilet.
Yes, it was another one of those “The ceiling is leaking things,” and since the splatter came from directly above the washing machine…it was the commode on the main floor…and it had to be fixed. So, since the family vehicle is on the lam I, like the Wizard of Oz pre-witch, peddled my bicycle to the local hardware store (fairly close, thankfully), and got the final skinny on how to tame the ancient drop-box.
After several hours (snail-like, I) the flusher is more focused and, though some of the floor is a bit soft (alas), that repair will have to wait (hopefully until after I’m dead).
The tie-in: once again I, the novice, needed help from the experienced. I checked youtube (of course!), asked a dude at work (he’d done it) and finally pressed the “experts” at the hardware store. They all got me through the toidy task. And, dear reader, at the helm of this ship of state we have hopefully learned--over the last three years--that inexperience, though wrapped in pretty ribbon--is deadly. The next fixer needs to have calloused hands and a weathered face. Therefore, of the many in the running…I lean towards the governors. Maybe they haven’t plumbed the enormous commode that finds it’s hole in Washington, but at least they know sewage when they smell it.