Getting my feet wet, or just cold feet?

Well, after spending days formatting the decor at the electronic version of Whirlwind Lodge, I've decided to put something, anything, into words. I am a member of a few online communities, but nothing like this...nothing where I am soley, 100% responsible for the entertainment of my readers. In other forums, I have support...some days I am leading actress, others I am supporting actress, I am stage crew, or I am pit orchestra. Here, it's a solo performance, and it takes some getting used to. It's given me a sense of cold feet that I haven't had since I appeared as a one-liner in a high school rendition of L'il Abner...my one and only line, "We wants to broaden our horizons!", said in my best 'hillbilly' accent. Aahhh, the memories.

So...my inagural act won't be some deep thought. It won't be glittering with insight, nor will it be useful, beneficial information to all whose eyes stumble through. It will be a story...a story of a commode.

That's right, a commode...the can...a porcelain throne...the crapper. Mine, in fact. We've lived in Whirlwind Lodge for going on 6 years now, and somewhere along the line, our toilet began to leak. Life happens though, and even though I'm down in the basement practically right underneath the crapper at least once a day grabbing laundry, it goes unnoticed. Unnoticed for about 5 years. Then, almost suddenly, I notice the toilet now rocks when you sit on it. Let me say, it's a frightening feeling knowing that if the can falls through the floor, your butt will be stuck on the top of a big cast iron pipe full of sewage. But still, we sit. The leak isn't obviously coming from the toilet, so we choose, consciously or not, to ignore it. Until today.

Today, I'm switching wet clothes over to the dryer, and I hear water splashing. Thudding, actually, as it hits a windbreaker jacket I've laid on the floor in order to wash next. I look up, and fortheloveofPete, the actual toilet is leaking (remember, I've ignored all previous signs of the toilet leakage). So I have Big Boss Man come down and watch while I go upstairs to flush...the whole "yell-if-it's-leaking" bit. Sure enough, he yells. So I decide that today is the day. Today is the day I stop being a wuss about DIYing the bathroom. I can at least handle the tear down, right? I have a couple friends I can call for small inquiries, and we have another working bathroom, so if I totally jack this one up, it's no biggie.

So I grunt. And I moan. I jam my fingers into more porcelain than I knew existed in my bathroom. I use a lot of WD-40, and I break a couple very rusty bolts. I lay in GOD KNOWS WHAT in order to detach the tank from the bowl. Then, with the help of Big Boss Man, the tank is lifted off and the bowl is removed. Years of wood rot is visible, laying from the sink on one side of the commode to the bathtub on the other side, and we realize what a big undertaking this bathroom thing is really going to be in the long run. But man! I feel like a woman!

So let it be known, girls, that if something needs fixed, or at least taken apart, in your home, you don't need to wait on your husband to get it done! Grab that wrench and some WD-40 and go at it! Look at it this way...if you let it go as long as we did, nothing you do will make it any worse...things can only look up from here.