Last weekend, Nate woke up with nothing to do.
I like it when Nate wakes up with nothing to do because odds are something in our house is going to get painted, fixed, replaced or renovated and that means Nate and I get to spend some quality time together playing my favorite game in the whole entire world: Pin the Tail on the Shit-That-Needs-to-Get-Done-Around-Here Spreadsheet.
Nate wound up pinning the tail on the girl’s bathroom upstairs. If you’re not familiar with their upstairs bathroom, go rent the movie Saw. I believe it was filmed there.
Pretty innocuous looking, right? From this photo, you can’t really appreciate:
- The dull, lifeless, ugly, flat, off-white paint which is almost, but not quite, hidden by the 532 grimy stains breeding all over it;
- The tub and floor tile which look like starving octuplets gorged themselves on Gerber meat sticks and then projectile vomited everywhere while twirling on Sit & Spins;
- The dented, stained, chipped vanity with its busted drawers and lopsided doors and cracked countertop that has participated in one too many OPI nail polish orgies;
- The twenty-year old translucent glass faucet fixtures which look as if they smoke 5 packs a day and snort soap scum when no one is looking;
- That thing that looked like it crawled out of Little House on the Prairie and committed suicide above the window;
- The broken toilet. And broken lighting. And broken window shade.
- And broken everything else.
But look! LOOKIT LOOKIT LOOKIT. Jesus, Mary & Joseph in Birkenstocks, do my eyes deceive me?
The toilet paper roll is on the dispenser.
Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think? A little too ironic? And yeah, I really do think …
THAT HOLY SHIT, ALANIS MORISSETTE IS LIVING IN OUR BATHROOM.
So, this is what the bathroom looked like at about noon.
And this is what it looked like four hours later, after Nate realized he couldn’t carry the 400 pound cast iron tub down the stairs and decided to smother it under a blanket and then beat it to death with a ten pound sledgehammer instead.
I’m slapping this photo up on the fridge, right next to the sledgehammer which I duct taped to the freezer. They’re an incentive to help me avoid reverting back to my old eating habits such as inhaling an entire cheesecake for breakfast. Works better than a stupid promo ad for size 4 skinny jeans any day.
But Lord help me if I ever need help getting down the stairs for any other reason.
Note to self: Do not ever break your leg.
Note to self #2: Hide the sledgehammer, and to hell with the incentive. Get your priorities in order, Numnuts.
I didn’t take pictures of the whole demolition process because as the above photo shows, accidents were abundant and I didn’t want to risk Nate swinging the sledgehammer and taking out various parts of my anatomy unless he had a clear shot at my decrepit bladder or putrid uterus which I would have gladly sacrificed if only to avoid the hassle of co-pays, antibiotics and conversations that start with I’ve got the bacterial equivalent of 500 piranha swimming around in my bahoodle doodle and you want to do IT now?
But no matter how I contorted myself, I couldn’t find a comfortable position without having to touch the toilet and I wasn’t wearing my Hazmat suit and you all know how I feel about that particular scenario. So I left the room with my bladder and uterus still in their originally shitty condition. THANKS A LOT, TOILET. HERE, HAVE SOME FLUORESCENT NEON ORANGE PEE FOR YOUR TROUBLE.
Without me in the room, Nate was able to concentrate on protecting his own vital organs in an attempt to avoid a life filled with no kneecaps, femurs, tibiae, testicles or fully intact brain stems. More than once, I went into the kitchen to find the box of Band-Aids ripped open with its contents strewn all over the counter amidst bloody paper towels. After checking the sizes of the discarded bandage wrappers, I determined that Nate probably didn’t lop off or pulverize anything too crucial and chances were still good that Mr. Happy would continue to wake me up every so often at 3:30 a.m., for a conjugal visit.
Note to self #3: Buy a more accurate sledgehammer.
Mr. Happy just needs to get a better sense of timing, is all I’m saying.
3:30 a.m., is freaking early.
Then again, I’m not sure I want to conjugate anything with someone so sweaty and I don’t care what the hell time of day it is.
Sweat during or after is OK.
But not before.
Am I alone in this?
Just in case anyone would like the recipe in time for the holidays.
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