Plumbing with Grandma

I live in my parents’ basement.  It’s decorated in Late 1960s Man Cave, snazzed up with the clown mosaic that will unfortunately flash before my eyes when I die, and updated with stylistically-out-of-effin-nowhere Christmas in Santa Fe upholstered furniture. The centerpiece of the underground lair, if you can make it past the pop of the red and green furniture against the ash-colored paneling that goes on for days, is a hulking I-don’t-know-what-wood-that-is, giganticus and boozeless bar (with saloony- looking swivel stools). I sleep on the fold-out Christmas couch. This was supposed to be a temporary gig, but until I find a full-time teaching job or the writing starts to pay off, it’s slumbertime in Santa Fe for me. (So take a minute and check out one of the advertisements on this page and maybe share the link with your other friends who can read. Support the arts and my lower back.)

So last week, The Gummer yells, “Lah-rie! What color is the water in the toilet tank?”

Ugh.

I can’t tell. The water in Collinsville looks like it came out of a coffee can full of bolts that was left on the back patio in the rain. It has bits of rust floating in it. Conveniently, I have been collecting little paper ketchup cups thinking that I would use them when I paint… or perhaps take water samples from toilet tanks.

“Clear!”

The little ketchup cup could not stop The Gummer. The Gummer calls a plumber.

Shortly after that, the doorbell rings, and there is some muffled banging around upstairs.

“LAH-RIE! Unlock the backdoor!”  

Before I have a chance to walk the 40-some odd feet to the door, she is banging on the screen door.

“LAH-RIE!”

I turn the deadbolt and open the door to see The Gummer in her weird “Guests make me snarky”-mode and the plumber. The plumber looks like the bastard love child of George Costanza and Patrick Star from Sponge Bob. He is smiling at me. He is smiling a lot. He is smiling way too much.

I look down to see if I am wearing a shirt. I am. Not only am I wearing a shirt, but it’s just a SHIRT. Left to my own devices, I generally dress for function. My primary objective is just to have clothes on. There was nothing for this plumber to write a letter to Penthouse about.  I turned around and walked away.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on one of the Christmas in Santa Fe couches and George Costanstar was going over his estimate with The Gummer.

“Is your daughter married?”

WHAT? I froze.

                The Gummer replied in a stage whisper: “She’s a single mom.”

                Damn it. What was she DOING? She would never, never, never try to set me up with someone. Was she flirting? Why did she even answer his question? She needed to go back to wing man training camp.

                Costanstar left, and I was informed that he would be back tomorrow to install new toilets in both bathrooms. Great. Now I was going to have to hide my Personal Items and find somewhere to go while this goofball was plumbing.

                “I heard you answer his question. He asked if I was married. What was up with that?”

                “Oh… I don’t know.”

                “I heard you say that I was a single mom. What was up with THAT?”

                “Oh…I don’t…know. He just…asked a question.”

                She was making Airy-Fairy face in an attempt to appear oblivious.

                “Ok, well... don’t do that. Cleaning my pipes is not a line item."

                I was called to substitute teach the next day, so I didn’t have to hang out with Costanstar.  Shockingly, he was still there when I came home. I had been teaching Special Ed all day, and when I walked in the door, he was sitting at the kitchen table smiling at me like, “GUHHHH!”

                I’m off the clock, buddy. 

                I just don’t understand how I’m still single.

Be a Fan