Swiffer Sink Saga 2011

It seems my sink is jealous of the attention paid to my pond/fountain and has decided to do something about it—namely drip down below onto the floor of my cupboard.

As you can imagine, this did not thrill me. 

Any disruption to  basic necessities— water, food, Internet, Baseball Tonight, power —are basically classified as mini-catastrophes in my world. I lose power, I go ape shit—another post entirely. 

Anyway, if I don’t have a sink, how can I make my tea? Use my steamer? Make my lunch for work at that exact second instead of later in the evening? How am I supposed to survive?!?

These were my thoughts about two seconds after this drippy discovery.

I was really trying to go with the flow—I know life is full of malfunctioning appliances and people—but when that flow is slowly dripping out under my sink every time I run the water, I tend to spout out my frustration in various forms.

Part of my frustration comes from not being able to fix it myself, but 99.9  percent of my frustration comes from the series of events that follow after my stepdad (or anyone) comes over to “fix” it.

*Yes,  I am most appreciative, but I am also OCD with no patience for putzing or lack of respect for the Lysol.

So without further putzing, let’s take a look at how my Sunday afternoon went (all times are approximate.)

1 pm—It’s Swiffer Sunday, so I throw everything into my dining room and proceed to do the Wet Jet waltz across my kitchen. While the floors dry, I go for a walk.

1:30—Get back, wash my hands and reached below the sink for the dish soap, only to discover a small puddle.

1:31—Express puzzlement over said puddle to inanimate objects within earshot and wipe it up with paper towel.

1: 32—Ignore real problem and move on.

2:30—Forget I was going to do the dishes, reach down for dish soap again and rediscover another puddle. Swear under (and over) my breath and call my stepdad to express my puzzlement over said puddle.

3:00—Stepdad arrives, does not take his shoes off before entering my Swiffered kitchen floor and going below the sink.

3:00:10—Remind myself he’s helping me out and try to ignore that he did not take his shoes off before entering my Swiffered kitchen floor. Deep breaths are taken and possibly exhaled as a loud sigh—this part is sketchy.

3:30—After tearing apart the sink and putting tools on the rug, it is decided he needs to go to Home Depot and I “need to chill out.”

Whatever.

3:31—He leaves. A towel is placed under his tools. While placing said towel, I realize the dishes are stacked on the counter—a situation that (obviously) needs to be remedied immediately.

3:35—Dishes and dish drainer are transported to the bathtub where they are thoroughly washed. Being crouched at that level, I notice the floor could stand to be vacuumed and heck, while I’m down there, the toilet should be cleaned.

4:00—Stepdad returns with the parts—he thinks—and I continue to stay out of the kitchen, not because I will be in the way, but because I will be tempted to Swiffer stalk him and poo-poo his putzing.

4:01—Plop down on the couch to watch the ballgame, something I had planned on doing before the Swiffer Sink Saga of 2011.

4:20—Try to ignore the clanking tools in the next room, decide I’m pretty much a revolutionary and applaud my survival skills in times of such stress.

4:21—Re-enter the kitchen, see what I declare to be a critical cleaning crisis and immediately change my mind on revolutionary status. However, I am informed it’s “fixed” and that he’s heading home.

4:25—Air kisses are exchanged, appreciation is heaped upon his ego before the dish drainer is put back in it’s rightful home, the shower is scrubbed and the Swiffer is put to good use. Again.

5:00—Make food—carefully avoiding the side of the sink that has drying caulk—and plop down on the couch to watch the end of the ballgame. Feel better, as this is your happy place.

Next afternoon—Fill sink, empty sink, discover it’s still dripping down below.

Throw something—a tantrum or a fork—and take a deep breath.

Make a phone call and a drink.

Blame the gnome.