Next time I tell y’all that I’m going to sell a book, sell an apartment, buy a house, and allow an alien fetus to take up residence in my spleenicular cavity SIMULTANEOUSLY, can one of you slap me? In the face? And maybe give me a mean, squinty-eyed, disapproving look at the same time? But then comfort me with a glass of chocolate milk and my very own baby pygmy hippo?
In other news, I can’t stop playing with my caulk.
Don’t worry, there’s back story. Last week we had our apartment inspected. I must say, for a building that’s well over a hundred years old, we did pretty darn well. The only to-do item that warranted a professional was the re-seating of our toilet.
Our one and only toilet. In an apartment with a pregnant lady. (Ok, maybe not lady. A pregnant chick, better?) Who, as we recently documented, pees almost 2 gallons in a twenty-four hour period.
After the plumbers did their magic with wax seals and whatever incantations plumbers chant when making sacrifices to ancient plumbing, the older, shorter plumber left us with some words of wisdom. “Yous can use da toilet in an hour or so, no prawblem. Yous just need ta be a liddle gentle wid da caulk.”
Now see, I was under the impression that caulk dried in less time than a Michael Bay movie. So I stopped consuming fluids and popped into Manhattan to catch the first performance of this year’s Broadway Cares’ Easter Bonnet Competition, figuring I’d use the theater’s toilet while mine was off limits. (I’ll tell you about that fantastic event later. Maybe even tomorrow. Or maybe not. You never know. I’m an enigma, after all. Or I have a short attention span. One of those things. Hey! I should bedazzle my bookbag this weekend!)
*chews thumbnail while trying to remember if bedazzler is in storage, watches seven hispanic guys unload a van full of lumber onto the sidewalk, wonders why Capital One has a boomerang in their logo, glances back down at now cold bagel and laptop, suddenly remembers unfinished post, scrolls up to reread title in hopes of getting back on track, distracted by flailing of supervisor hispanic guy after he spills orange juice on sheet of plywood*
So several hours later, still flush with the excitement of drag queens and glitter, I eagerly flopped onto my very own toilet and kicked off my shoes. I noted with disappointment that the toilet still rocked. So I peered down between my knees and saw the formerly pristine caulk all bubbly and uneven. I gingerly touched the material and found it moist and malleable.
Is this starting to sound like the dialogue from a bad porn or what? How’s your caulk? It’s getting harder, but it’s not quite there.
After flushing, I knelt beside the toilet and re-smoothed out the caulk with my finger. Touch my caulk. It felt like it had been applied minutes earlier instead of hours. So I spent the rest of the evening pretending my toilet had been replaced by one from Madison Square Garden after a Phish concert and straddled the bowl rather than lower any of my weight onto the delicate caulk.
But this morning, still half-dazed from not sleep and with no recollection of yesterdays caulk blocking, I flopped onto the toilet and again felt the ominous rock. Still wet! My caulk can’t get hard!
Now I’m sitting in Panera, utilizing their bathroom facilities because I can’t stop fingering my caulk.
And if you come visit me today, try not to rock on my caulk.