October 6, 2021 — About 10 p.m. last evening, I flushed the commode after doing my duty in the master bathroom. The water in the basin rose unexpectedly and spilled over the top of the rim. I jumped back to avoid getting wet, and the forty-foot tether of oxygen tubing that is my constant friend pulled the metal. vertical, toilet paper holder over and ruined four rolls of Cottonelle. (No cheap stuff for Mama.)
After the flooding ceased, I flushed again. I had my trusty plunger in hand and jumped into the delightful task of plunging before the water got too high again. I was successful, but there was already water all over the floor. The red chenille bathroom rug became the Lake Titicaca under my feet.
I moved the scales, a laundry basket, and the trash can to the adjacent master bedroom.
I had to mop the tile floor immediately, and I went to the closet for my Swiffer (used for emergencies.) The twice-a-month housekeepers bring mops and soap. Unfortunately, like most cleaning products in this house, the Swiffer was long dead, batteries corroded in their little nest.
I yelled for Herman to go to the garage and bring me a bucket and a mop. I grabbed the Spic and Span from the laundry closet. Thankfully, we had what looked like three brand-new boxes, unopened.
Herman took forever. I heard him coming up the basement stairs, breathing heavily. He carried our yellow plastic mop buck
et and wringer, which he had already filled with water.
I’m not going to argue with him when he’s trying to help me, but I might have put the water in after climbing the stairs.
I cannot explain the mind of mortal man.
The water in the bucket was cold and looked dingy, though Herman said he cleaned out the bucket before dragging it from the furnace room in the bowels of the house. It’s too heavy for me to lift. He instructed me to add the Spic and Span, which I did after adding hot water from the tap.
I mopped the room. Herman said he would dump the dirty mop bucket water in his bathtub just yards away.
In anticipation of the bi-weekly housekeepers’ visit, he had just completed his laundry, and I was about to do mine. The housekeepers were due to visit a day from now. Our motto: “Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?” There were laundry baskets all over the floor in the bedroom. I made a path for him.
He wound the big yellow bucket and wringer through the path, me jumping out of the way with my plastic tubing in tow. The bucket of water flipped on its side at the lip between the bedroom floor and the hallway floor, expelling the cold, dirty mop water back into the bedroom and out into the hallway, edging close to my office, the exercise room, and the laundry closet.
I had used the clean towels for Niagara Falls # 1. We had no choice but to use my dirty laundry to soak up the water.
Thankfully, my pandemic wardrobe absorbs well – sweatpants and black t-shirts. Sublime pride rose in my chest that my 44DD bras were particularly good soakers.
Now, eight loads of laundry later, I’m thrilled to have clean floors and clean clothes. Retirement is grand.
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