The day the water broke

From the title, you might think I am going to tell a cautionary tale of pregnancy.
Not so.
I am going to tell you why women bug their husbands to do things and then somehow manage to keep from saying "I told you so" when it all goes horribly wrong.
I have been suggesting firmly all summer that we need to have the handyman come and do a number of things at the house. We have a leaky faucet in the bathroom. The buzzer on the dryer will not shut off on its own. The furnace needs to be cleaned and readied for use. And the water spigot out back twists to a 45-degree angle when you try to shut it off.
The Ump is a terrific husband, but he is not a handyman. There are certain things he can do, but other things he tries often go awry. I'm not complaining, really. I lived alone for 18 years and I was a terrible handyman. If he mows and does yardwork, takes out the trash and runs the vacuum cleaner every now and then, I am happy.
I have no aversion to calling someone to take care of things. The Ump, however, does. It's called "not wanting to pay someone to do something that he might be able to figure out how to do if he ever finds enough time to take a look at it."
On Monday night my usual board meeting was canceled, so I was looking forward to getting a few things accomplished before the Ump got home from football practice. I let the dogs out, changed my clothes and came back outside.
Tip was standing by the outside water bowl which was full of walnut leaves.
"I'll get you some water, old man," I told him. I reached down, turned the spigot and nice, cold water gushed into the bowl.
After about 10 seconds, I turned the handle on the spigot and - true to form - the whole spigot turned 45 degrees while the water continued to run. Unfortunately, it did not stop at 45 degrees, but kept turning and the water kept gushing.
It became quickly apparent that I had a problem.
I herded the dogs into the house by frantically waving my arms and yelling for them. They thought I lost my mind, I am sure, but they willingly went into the house to get away from me.
I ran down the stairs and into the basement to see if I could figure out where the cutoff valve was located.
I spotted it fairly quickly. It was not far from the outside basement door.
While I dragged a chair across the floor, I listened to the water rush like Niagara and heard a cash register ringing, ringing, ringing in my ears as I imagined the Ump freaking out over the water bill.
Standing on my toes on the chair, I could just barely reach the valve, but my hand was not strong enough to turn it.
I jumped off the chair and ran back upstairs to get something that would give me some leverage. Panting, I pulled the closet door open only to find an empty space where the tool box should be.
"ARGH!!!!!" (That's the family version of what I said.) I grabbed the phone and called the Ump, knowing he would not have his phone with him on the practice field and he did not.
Then I called the school's main number thinking that maybe someone would be in the office. I got the automated answering system which was absolutely no help whatsoever. I looked up the number for the athletic director - seems like she is always at the school - no answer.
Normally, our next door neighbor helps me in times of distress, but he was not home (I ran there first). His truck was gone which might have meant that he was out on a fire call.
FIRE DEPARTMENT. They work with lots of water all the time. I called the non-emergency number. No one answered.
The water continued to blast across the sidewalk and I essentially was spinning around in the kitchen looking for something, anything to use as leverage to turn the valve. The handle of a wooden spoon was too big. So were several other utensils I brought down (one at a time, for some reason. I should have brought the whole drawer.)
My final attempt was with a plastic chopstick - which fit, but snapped in my hand.
I felt like I was going insane. I've heard of water torture, but I don't think this was what they had in mind.
Racing from the house to my car, I took off down the street thinking that maybe there would be someone sitting outside at the fire department. As I shot through the intersection of Court and Muhlenberg streets, I saw a police car and thought POLICE! I had a brief image of wheeling around in the street so the cop would see me and follow me up the hill.
Fortunately, I realized this is REAL life, not a movie, but I did do a U-turn and when I did I realized that Phil was at Beth's shoe shop.
Beth has been a great friend of mine for nearly 20 years. One of the bonuses of being a friend of Beth is having access to some of Beth's very handy friends. Phil helped me on several occasions before I was married.
I screeched into a parking space and yelled at Beth through her open window and asked if Phil was there.
"There's water everywhere; it's going everywhere!" I yelled as she ran upstairs to get Phil.
Phil - while he is a handyman - only has one speed. And it wasn't fast enough for me. He was just climbing into his truck as I took off up the street.
I parked behind the house and started walking up the driveway when I saw Phil drive by the house and head up the hill.
"PHILLLLLL!!!!!" I screamed as the water gushed across the driveway and down over the bank.
I ran into the street. I probably was pulling my hair out, I don't remember.
I started running up the street when I realized what had happened. Phil was parked at the top of the hill in front of my old house, a block away - where I lived before I got married five years ago.
"PHILLLLLLL!!! Down here. I live down here," I screamed and jumped up and down and waved my arms.
He heard my voice, but didn't know where it was coming from. He walked across the street as I ran further up the road. Eventually he looked in my direction and I saw him react - almost like a cartoon character - in surprise. He climbed back in his truck and drove down the hill.
If I could have run behind him and pushed him from the truck to the basement, I would have done that. I felt like one of those little dogs that dances around its owner's feet trying to get a treat or something.
Phil lumbered into the basement, stood on the chair, reached up and grabbed the valve. He gave it several quick turns, the water cut off and that was that.
As he drove off, I collapsed on the sofa, thinking that I should have a prescription of Valium or something. Maybe in a little glass box with a hammer so I can smash it to gain access in emergencies.
After I told the Ump the whole dramatic story from start to finish, of course his first question was how much water I thought ran out.
"We would have lost a lot less if there had been one single tool in the house!" I shot back at him.
He looked sheepish and said "I know, I know."
"I guess we better make a list and give Melvin (the handyman) a call," he said.
Yay.
It is so important for a woman to have a man who loves her, a man who is good around the house and a man who is a solid financial provider.
The trick is to keep the three men from finding out about each other. (hee-hee)

New toy

There is a certain advantage to being married to a man who hates to shop.
Nine times out of 10 I get to pick out my own presents.
Which is why I am currently blogging on my bed with Peanut sleeping beside me on a pillow. My birthday present was a superfast laptop computer with a lot of bells and whistles (not all of them, mind you - too expensive), As it is this computer is more expensive than my first car. Granted, I bought my first car in 1984 and it was a 1974 VW Super Beetle. I think the battery on this computer is actually stronger than my VW was. Hopefully there is no battery acid associated with my laptop. The battery in the VW actually ate through the floorboard of the car (the battery was located under the backseat of the car).
The Ump does not enjoy any aspect of shopping. He is such a man about it. He parks as close as he can get to whatever store we are going to so that he can quickly escape once the shopping experience is over/ Don't even think about suggesting comparison shopping by going to more than one store before making a purchase.
He just hates shopping.
Our first Christmas together he went shopping with some friends who were shopping for their wives and girlfriends and I got a very interesting collection of gifts (including a heart-shaped diamond necklace that I had actually asked for). But I don't think he enjoyed the shopping experience even with his friends because that has never been repeated.
This weekend was the Edinburg Ole Time Festival. I didn't even bother asking him if he wanted to go. I knew the answer.
He told me later - and I quote - that he would rather have all his teeth pulled than go to that festival. Without Novocaine.
Ouch.
Recently, I forced him to go to a real shoe store where he could get his foot sized and purchase good shoes that acually fit his foot size, arch etc. He was able to find two nice pair of shoes - unfortunately the price of the shoes nearly sent him running out of the store in his sock feet.
In addition to his stance on shopping, he also is - shall we say - frugal.
He gets it naturally. He made me promise to never tell his mother how much we spent on shoes that day. I believe he was worried about being disowned.
So, the moral to this story is that you don't always want to try to change someone. I made several attempts at trying to get the Ump to shop with me and I made two discoveries:
1. I hate to shop with him. I can't enjoy myself at all.
2. I am guaranteed to enjoy my presents if I tell him what I want. (Which was his point all along. I just had to get beyond the "Well, if he really loves me for who I am, he should know what I would enjoy as a present..."
I might not have totally reached that point (the romantic in me refuses to go away), but I am really enjoying my laptop.

Turn, turn, turn

So. I turned 45 last week.
So what? Well, I just can't believe it.
I've never been one to mbe particularly bothered by my age. My issue was never with being that age - but ideals I had of where I should be in my life by the time I reached a particular age.
I had the same reaction when I turned 25. And again at 35. Seems the "5s" give me the most problem.
My birthday was Tuesday, but it was not until Saturday that the familiar wave of overwhelm washed over me. I tried to battle it by organizing the house. Under certain circumstances I can battle the blues with normal household tasks. Closet-cleaning is a remarkable vaccine for depression - must be the Virgo in me.
I gave it a gallant try. I sorted socks and reorganized my nightgown drawer. I did several loads of laundry and washed the bathroom floor. As soon as I stopped, the feelings I was trying to dodge caught up with me,
Even the Ump could see my mood shift.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said with a big sniff. I wiped the tears away.
"Really, what is wrong?" he asked again.
"I don't know. I feel sad. I just want to cry," I told him, regretting it instantly because No. 1 he hates it when I cry and No. 2 because he feels like he needs to come up with a way to cure my problem.
On the one hand, it's nice that he cares enough to make an attempt. But one thing I have determiined to be true in my short married life is that men and women approach these things in very different ways. A woman is sad. She wants to share her feelings with someone, get a little sympathy or empathy or even a cup of tea. Other women know this and that is how they help their women friends, sisters, daughters, moms etc.
When men see their women upset, they want to fix the problem. They offer suggestions. "Don't cry. That won't help anything." Or "If you don't like your chubby legs why don't you start walking in the afternoon or work out?"
Valid suggestions, but they do not make women feel better. Sometimes we just want to wallow in it. Wade right into the swamp of sentiments and let our selves sink into melodramatic mush right up to our noses.
The key is to know when to take a breath and haul ourselves out of the muck.
So, I turned 45 last week. I had lunch with friends on Tuesday. Cried on Saturday. Ate cupcakes on Sunday.
It's all good.