I was so looking forward to today. I am hosting a big dinner party this weekend with a Mexican theme and I was going to spend the day perusing all my cookbooks and putting together an elegant, yet casual, yet upscale, yet mi casa es su casa, menu. However, my toilet decided, nope- not today, as it sent up the plastic casing from every tampon I have used in the last five years and a wad of dental floss, the size of a tennis ball, to greet my butt first thing this morning. And, yes, I know I am not supposed to throw those things down there.
My punishment? Waiting for, and then dealing with the plumber. This is one of the things I hate most about divorce. In the old days, I would call the plumber and then haul ass, leaving my ex to explain the toilet paper sculptures, cell phone backs, and other hideous items that surface from time to time in our commodes. To top it off, it's the master bath so he's gonna know, that whatever he finds in there...is mine. OMG. I'd rather just move.
I make the call, and then wait for his arrival. I plant myself at my kitchen table with "1000 Authentic Mexican Recipes" and "It's So Nice, Cooking with Spice" and immerse myself in the cuisine of Mexico. I want to impress my friends with my cooking skills, flair for authentic ingredients and new boots.
I decide to start with Mole sauce..never made it but how hard can it be? 24 fucking ingredients-that's how. These people want me to use Guajillo Chille Sauce with Cream on my tacos??? WTF? I am frantically looking for a great appetizer like cheese dip perhaps, and they are giving me Pumpkin Cream Sauce over tomatillas with roasted serranos. Ugh- it has taken me 45 minutes to realize that Albondigas means meatballs. A knock on the door brings me out of Mexican hell.
There he is, bucket and wire snake in hand. I open the door and let him into the hall where he stops to put some blue operating room booties on over his work boots, G-d forbid he should track in a leaf. I know they will be covered in dog hair by the time he hits the bathroom but..whatever.
"What do we have today?" he asks.
I want to say "A toilet spitting fire, surrounded by a pool of urine laced water," but I just answer
"A clogged master" and point him in the right direction.
I am right in the thick of Mexican Sweet Buns or as we Mexican cooks (they got me with fried jalapenos) like to call them Pan Dulces, when I hear water sloshing and footsteps.
"Welp, here's your problem" he announces. "Ya see this here?" I nod, as he shoves a filthy piece of toilet in my face. "This plastic has corroded and needs to be replaced, we got these here new ones made of steel, see this?" I nod again. "These dang things will last ya forever."
All I can think during this exchange, is "Thank God, he put the booties on so he doesn't slip on the water generated from carrying a feces covered toilet part through my home, and into my kitchen." I stare at the corroded culprit and watch each water drop hit the floor, not inches away from my beloved Mocha Master coffee pot. Please I beg inwardly, go fix the toilet, I don't care if you use a rubberband and paperclip but get out of my kitchen.
He sloshes back to the bathroom, taking every e.coli germ and contagion known to man with him.
Ay carramba. Crazy gringo.