Why does everything sound so much better in French?
My day didn’t start off too well, my toilet, for no apparent reason refusing to flush.
Now it wasn’t as if a Marine slept over, so it was just being old and moody.
My building was built in 1936, which compared to my old one standing since 1899, is a youngster, just with issues since it always has a problem.
Last week the shower wouldn’t go on. The week before, a window kept blowing open.
My old place was tough in comparison, a cross between a Tyrannosaurus rex, and Rocky, deserving a medal for endurance.
So there I am, in a rush to leave, anal me, pun intended, unable to deal with it later. So I creep into the basement to borrow the super’s special plunger his uncle Ray gave him when he graduated from Super School, for lack of a better term, hoping he wouldn’t catch me.
For him, it’s like borrowing his comb.
So, in my Lily Pulitzer vintage shift and amethyst choker, I took the plunge, water spraying, me cursing.
And it still wouldn’t budge.
So I sat on the floor and we, a bit one-sided, had a chat.
“Listen, I need to go…to work, to go to work, and will have a much better day if we could clear this up before I leave. I know it’s hot and muggy, and you’re probably tired of your job, but could you please behave…please?”
Yeah I know, Susannah, do you have your shrink on speed-dial by any chance?
I then asked her…oh, it has to be a her, come on, only a woman would be this stubborn…if she’d like a little Lemon Pine Sol, to freshen up a bit.
And whaddya know, after a few good capfuls, she was running like the Super Chief.
Like I’ve always say, inanimate objects have feelings too.