I would like to take this opportunity to reflect upon that which I have gleaned from my father, who is an exceptionally brilliant man. From him, I've learned to appreciate the power of my voice, and more so, the power of my pen.
From this lesson that I'm about to share, I discovered something that has evaded doctors and medical science … something that still eludes them to this day. And though I learned this a little while back, today, for the first time, I will share this discovery with all of you.
I've had a long day, just returned from the gym, and this is what I come home to …
There's a problem with the toilet – but that's not really the problem.
My dad heard some hissing sound coming from the toilet. And, umm … let me just say, if I were a toilet, I too would hiss at my father.
So he heard this sound and decided to fix it.
Typically, problems in our household have been known to stem from the blahblahblahdahliaitsallyourfault syndrome, but the toilet with the hiss belongs to my dad, so there is no way possible to claim its problem as a symptom of blahblahblahdahliaitsallyourfault.
Anyway, at this point, my father – now the neo-plumber – shifts occupations yet again as he quickly becomes the foul-mouthed-trucker, which naturally is a symptom of blahblahblahdahliaitsallyourfault. (Otherwise known as howdidiendupbackathomeat28?)
You see, when my father surveyed the toilet problem, he happened to break an important flibbertigibbet in the tank, and so he went to the store to buy some glue to fix it.
But, the employee gave him the wrong glue.
Of course, it's entirely the employee's fault, because we all know when we go out to buy something we should never read the label on the product we're buying – even if it reads in red, big, bold letters, "DO NOT USE ON PLUMBING PROJECTS."
So, because of the stupid, Dahlia-aged employee (obviously a demerit for me), my dad had to go back to the store. But, before going back to the store he had to call there to complain about the employee’s negligence in selling him the wrong glue.
My dad was placed on hold. “Hold," of course, a relatively new form of technology that has only blossomed in my generation.
Strike two for Dahlia. Clearly.
Okay, I must digress for a moment to share a peeve with you. Whenever my father phones a store, a company, any organization ... it doesn't matter where … he counters the telephone greeter in the most Dahlia's-dad-like way. For instance:
Lumber store: Good morning, McDiarmid Lumber.
Dad: Good morning, McDiarmid Lumber.
Car service shop: Good morning, Toyota Service Department.
Dad: Hello, Toyota Service Department.
I know what you're thinking. It is indeed humourous, but only if done as a joke. And you know my dad is being serious, whenever he is funny.
So, back to the saga of the toilet.
Or as it should be have been called in my household: The oy-let.
He goes to the store and now returns with something better than glue. Yes! A new flibbertigibbet. And guess what? He's complaining.
"I don't know how I will ever be able to do this. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay ... What have I gotten myself into?"
Well, I know what I'm in for.
And I don't know if it was my knavish self that decided to propose the inevitable solution, or just plain unequivocal post-gym workout, pre-food malnourishment, but I asked, "Why don't you just call a plumber?"
Whatever the case – stupid me.
And now the problem has escalated to a full-blown case of blahblahblahdahliaitsallyourfault.
It gets worse.
I was doing the dishes. Nay, allow me to rephrase. I still had not had a chance to eat, so I was courteously doing the family's dishes. And, my father calls me to fit my petite wrist in the tank, “Dahlia, I need you to twist some nut.”
At first mention of twisting some nut I thought, "Gee, Dad, you’re already twisted."
No. I didn't say that aloud, instead I said, "Okay, I just have this pot to wash and I'll be right there."
Coincidentally, that very day the news reported some big explosion in China. China. Sure. That was the explosion.
Sounded something like, "Blahblahblah, I ask for one thing of you … Blahblahblah, you don't even want to help me … Wah, wah, wah, I’m a big baby."
I tried to intersperse his rant with bits of, "No, I'm coming right now … I'm on my way," but I didn't have a pacifier to stuff in his mouth to quiet him, so as he could hear my words.
Next thing I know, he stomps into his bedroom washroom. He locks the door in a loud, deliberate, obvious sort of way that one would not imagine is possible when merely locking a door.
(No wonder he breaks everything.)
And there he was, holed up in the toilet, cursing like an inbred-southern-lard-smearing-on-deep-fried-ribs-moonshine-guzzling-redneck …
Irritable Toilet Syndrome.
And, you’re welcome, modern medical science.