Pay No Attention To The Man In The Corner With The Gun
Well, the plumber came and ripped a hole the size of Montana in our bathroom wall this afternoon. For my birthday when I was pregnant with the little angel, my beloved installed a tub surround in the bathroom. He laid it over the old, icky, black, mildewed, sixty-year-old tile that used to haunt my dreams like the boiler room in a Freddy Krueger film. I was certain the tile might somehow find its way off the wall, scratch its way across the peeling lineoleum in the bathroom and scale the snags in the upstairs Berber to scrape my face while I slept.
One, two, the tile is gonna get you...
Three, four, better lock your door...
Five, six, grab the strong Tilex...
Seven, eight, better scrub till late...
Nine, ten, oh, screw it - just slap a piece of tile-molded plastic over the whole thing and pretend like it never happened.
So anyway, the plumber had to jackhammer through not only ancient tile, but also this big sheet of plastic. Oh, and a wooden wall. He did a pretty complete job, which unfortunately happened while my beloved was on the phone with one of his brokerage prospects.
Prospect: "What's that noise?"
Beloved: "Oh, that? That's nothing."
BLAM! POW! SPLAT! RIIIIIIIIP!
Prospect: "Really? Nothing?"
Beloved: "Well, there is a strange man in my bathroom with a blowtorch. Don't let it worry your pretty little head. How's your money market doing this quarter?"
I haven't taken a shower in there yet. We had to shut off the heat and open the bathroom window (this is accomplished by removing the entire lower window frame, since the pieces of rope that raise the window have been gone since we moved into the house - perhaps gone since the Reagan administration - I really don't know). We left the window open during our outing to Costco after work. My beloved thought he'd solve the smell problem by lighting a leftover Thanksgiving Target pumpkin-scented candle. Now it smells like burning rubber dog shit infused with cinnamon.
I think I'll go take a shower. Yummy.