It all started when the coffee pot refused to brew. Never a good sign. Even the dogs know not to speak to me until I’ve had my first cup, and today is a big day that’s starting earlier than usual. The flooring guys are coming and I need everyone up, showered, and out of the house by 7, when Bill should get here to remove the toilet. Flooring guys will move your appliances, I’m told, but they don’t do toilets.
I’m a voice girl. I do commercials, training videos, and the occasional documentary. Sometimes clients, especially small businesses, like to pay in trade instead of cash. I love trade deals. So far, trade has landed me a mountain bike, a ridiculously expensive gas grill, some haircuts, new windows, and one of my two dogs (long story). My latest client signed on for a year of radio ads in exchange for updating my 1950’s style flooring in the kitchen and bathroom. This is about 50 years overdue. I feel like I’m getting the better end of the deal, since it takes me about two minutes to record an ad for them every month. I almost feel guilty about it.
The toilet thing goes fine; Bill, my stepdad, is a whiz at that kind of thing. I’m just a little worried, since that’s the only toilet in the house.
“Maybe the coffee thing is for the best,” he says, “with no toilet, and all.”
He’s got a point.
In real life, I’m a copy editor, since the voice work comes in fits and spurts. My home office is small, but I love my ancient desk and well-worn chair, and my giant windows overlooking the river. When I sit at my desk with the doors and windows shut, it’s peaceful; I can hardly hear the whir of the saw in the next room.
Booting up my MacBook, I see I have 82 articles waiting in my queue to be edited. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I whisper, crinkling my nose and resisting the urge to curse. I average about 50 a day, so this is going to be a long one. And 20 from my least favorite writer, though we’re not supposed to single people out like that. I can’t help it.
What I wouldn’t give for a coffee.
With a sigh, I open my first article, just as one of the flooring guys pokes his head through the doorway.
“Gotta problem,” he says. “Your bathroom floor is a mess.”
I go to look, and sure enough. My bathroom floor is a mess. Underneath the old linoleum, there’s loads of thick, black rot next to the tub, and even more where the toilet used to be.
“Wow,” is all I can muster.
“Good thing we found it,” he says. “You could have fallen through the floor on that toilet, see?”
I see.
They can’t lay the tile until someone comes and fixes it, but they know someone and he’s on his way. At least they can do the kitchen, where the dead coffee maker still sits on the countertop.
Back in my office, my Yahoo messenger buzzes; it’s a message from Dana.
“Flooring guys there?” she asks.
I explain about the rot.
“My worst fear,” she says, “is dying on the toilet.”
I’ve got plenty of phobias, but that wasn’t one of them. Until today, anyway.
My phone is ringing in my office, and it’s the school calling. My son forgot his asthma inhaler. Could I bring it?
“My son hasn’t had an asthma attack in two years,” I wanted to say, but I shut my mouth just in time. Bad mom for even thinking it, I know.
I grab the inhaler along with the car keys, mumble an apology to the flooring guys and take off. Those 82 articles are just going to have to wait.
At least I can stop for coffee along the way.
I’m a voice girl. I do commercials, training videos, and the occasional documentary. Sometimes clients, especially small businesses, like to pay in trade instead of cash. I love trade deals. So far, trade has landed me a mountain bike, a ridiculously expensive gas grill, some haircuts, new windows, and one of my two dogs (long story). My latest client signed on for a year of radio ads in exchange for updating my 1950’s style flooring in the kitchen and bathroom. This is about 50 years overdue. I feel like I’m getting the better end of the deal, since it takes me about two minutes to record an ad for them every month. I almost feel guilty about it.
The toilet thing goes fine; Bill, my stepdad, is a whiz at that kind of thing. I’m just a little worried, since that’s the only toilet in the house.
“Maybe the coffee thing is for the best,” he says, “with no toilet, and all.”
He’s got a point.
In real life, I’m a copy editor, since the voice work comes in fits and spurts. My home office is small, but I love my ancient desk and well-worn chair, and my giant windows overlooking the river. When I sit at my desk with the doors and windows shut, it’s peaceful; I can hardly hear the whir of the saw in the next room.
Booting up my MacBook, I see I have 82 articles waiting in my queue to be edited. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I whisper, crinkling my nose and resisting the urge to curse. I average about 50 a day, so this is going to be a long one. And 20 from my least favorite writer, though we’re not supposed to single people out like that. I can’t help it.
What I wouldn’t give for a coffee.
With a sigh, I open my first article, just as one of the flooring guys pokes his head through the doorway.
“Gotta problem,” he says. “Your bathroom floor is a mess.”
I go to look, and sure enough. My bathroom floor is a mess. Underneath the old linoleum, there’s loads of thick, black rot next to the tub, and even more where the toilet used to be.
“Wow,” is all I can muster.
“Good thing we found it,” he says. “You could have fallen through the floor on that toilet, see?”
I see.
They can’t lay the tile until someone comes and fixes it, but they know someone and he’s on his way. At least they can do the kitchen, where the dead coffee maker still sits on the countertop.
Back in my office, my Yahoo messenger buzzes; it’s a message from Dana.
“Flooring guys there?” she asks.
I explain about the rot.
“My worst fear,” she says, “is dying on the toilet.”
I’ve got plenty of phobias, but that wasn’t one of them. Until today, anyway.
My phone is ringing in my office, and it’s the school calling. My son forgot his asthma inhaler. Could I bring it?
“My son hasn’t had an asthma attack in two years,” I wanted to say, but I shut my mouth just in time. Bad mom for even thinking it, I know.
I grab the inhaler along with the car keys, mumble an apology to the flooring guys and take off. Those 82 articles are just going to have to wait.
At least I can stop for coffee along the way.
2 comments:
Now I'm afraid of my toilet. Thanks. Good to see you are blogging again. I just did a little cleaning up on mine, ready to get back at it. Nice knowing I have a neighbor out here in the blogosphere.
"fallen through the floor on that toilet" :)
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