I am staring at a computer cabinet that is messy beyond my
normal degree of messiness. And it’s all the plumber’s fault. He came to the
house on Friday to: 1) swap out the guts of the toilet because it was taking
forever for the bowl to refill after flushing; 2) replace the mixer on my
shower so I no longer have to boil myself to get clean; 3) swap out the hoses
on my washing machine because it’s better to do that before they leak causing the
floor to rot and the machine to end up in the basement; and 4) to fix a leaky
kitchen faucet that got completely replaced because a screw was too rusty to turn
out to fix the old faucet. He also had to go down the basement to turn off the
water and while he was down there I had him test my sump pump. I hate sump
pumps. That’s where murderers hide bodies in bad books and movies and I’m
afraid I’ll drop my eyeglasses inside when I look down in there. I had no idea
until Friday what I was looking for when I do my sump pump checks. But now I
know if the white float is under water, then it’s time to dial 911-emergency
plumber and get the bugger swapped out before the next big rain storm.
So what does having the plumber literally all over my house
have to do with my messy computer cabinet? A lot. He might only be a
serviceman, but I don’t get much company and I like having my house look great
for anyone who steps through the front door, especially now that I’m old enough
to be reported to Social Services if I look like an old woman in need of a
keeper. All the desk-type stuff I normally have on my kitchen table got piled
inside my computer cabinet were it still remains, and all the normal junk in my
shower and on bathroom counter top went inside my bathroom linen closet. I didn’t
want the guy to read my bottles and jars and know I’m obsessing about my skin
again. Why do I do that? I’ll go for months doing little more than washing my
face at night and in my morning showers. Then something will set me off and
I’ll be ‘sanding’ my skin, loading it up with masks and potions that promise to
make my pores disappear.
My husband had rental property for a time and one of the houses came with a tenant who was 93 years old when she became a problem; the utilities
were included in the rent and they got so high they totaled up to more than she
was paying in rent. (She probably kept her thermostat the same as her age.) Every month when Don would go down to collect the rent he’d vow he was going to raise her rent to the
breakeven point. And every month he’d come home saying he couldn’t do it. She
worshipped the ground he walked on and who wouldn’t when you have a landlord
who’d pick up prescriptions or a few groceries whenever he stopped? She always
had a little ‘errands list’ for him and she was so appreciative to the point that
he couldn’t bring up the rent increase.
Finally, he called her daughter and told the woman he was
going to evict her mother if she (the daughter) didn’t take over one of the
utilities bills. “She’s your mother, not mine! I shouldn’t have to supplement
her living expenses.” The daughter was quite wealthy and did nothing to help
out her mother but she caved into Don’s toothless threat and the gas bill was
switched over to her account. He wouldn’t have evicted his “good luck charm” as
he called her but he often said, “How much longer can she live?” And who would
take her mangy dog if he did evict her? He'd already taken in his mom's nasty tempered cat when she went in a nursing home, he didn't need to make any more promises like that. When Mrs, Anderson finally died a few years short
of 100, we had to gut all the flooring down to the floor joists in one room to
get rid of the dog’s ‘bathroom’ and we repainted all the walls four times to
get rid of the odor of her cigarette smoking. You could practically get lung
cancer just opening the front door.
Mrs. Anderson is the reason why I half-joke, half-fear someone calling Social Services
on me in the future should I become a danger to myself; we were in a position where we debated which was the kinder thing to do----report her to Social Services so she’d be forced into a nursing home or her daughter’s
fancy digs or let her live out her life in a house where she’d been a tenant for
the better part of her life. We made the right choice but only because Mrs. Anderson died
of natural causes. We always worried that she’d fall asleep with a cigarette in
her hand, die in a nasty fire and we’d end up regretting not making that call. And
talking to her daughter about the situation was like talking to a yard ornament. Yup,
Don’s lucky charm is why I hide my kitchen table clutter in my computer cabinet
when the plumber and other service people come calling. You can never be too
careful around young people because you can’t tell which ones could be on a
mission to save old people from themselves. ©
