FATE AND THE TOILET SEAT

The Romans believed in fate, sometimes personified as the Fates, three sisters who spun out life from a distaff, measured it, then cut it off. Your fate was your fate. There was nothing you could do about it. Even the gods couldn't control the Fates. Naturally, as a Christian I don't believe in fate. I'm not sure how things like providence and predestination might fit with fate, but I just ignore that branch of theology. However, recent experiences have suggested the possibility that some sort of powers somewhere don't like me. Maybe it's space aliens pointing a bad-luck ray in my direction or maybe a wizard from Slytherin House practicing jinxes on me, but something fiendish is happening.

I've mentioned the accident at the dentist's office that left my car dented and the expiration of my scanner. I have not mentioned two casters breaking off my desk chair or the flying piece of lumber that hit my windshield on the interstate, but I shall omit those tales of woe and only recount today. This day, this very day, has been a disaster from the get-go. You've heard about getting out of bed on the wrong side? Well I got out of bed on the right side (literally) but the wrong way. I swung my legs out of bed and just as my right foot touched the floor, I got a terrible cramp in my leg which promptly folded under me landing me on the floor. As I went down I somehow kicked the laundry basket. It went up in the air and dumped dirty clothes on me, the bed, and probably several places I haven't discovered. Fortunately, I avoided the basket itself as it made its return trip to earth. Off to a great start.

The bed disaster was followed by the breakfast fiasco. I follow a regular morning routine–first taking pre-breakfast meds. Second, turning on kettle and preparing tea pot. Third, morning ablutions. Fourth, pouring boiling water on tea leaves and preparing breakfast and lunch. Fifth, with the tea now properly steeped, breakfast and with-food meds. Today I hobbled to the bathroom to take pills. Hobbled to kitchen to start the tea. Hobbled back to the bathroom. Hobbled back to the kitchen, poured boiling water, made breakfast and lunch, poured out first cup of tea. Except it wasn't tea, only hot water. I hadn't put any tea leaves in the pot. Well, that had to be remedy, but it threw my routine out of sync. It wasn't until this evening that I realized I had forgotten one hobble back to the bathroom for pills. I did not take the ones for arthritis (so now my knees ache as well as my leg) nor the little pink "serotonin uptake inhibitor" (my happy pills). Wounded, aching, and grumpy, I was ready to face the day.

I had to get to church early to fix the toilet seat in the ladies room before the ladies started turning up for the 11:30 service. Somehow a bolt had broken, and there was no way to replace just the bolt. I had purchased a fine, new seat yesterday, so it was going to be a quick job, fifteen minutes, tops. I got out my trusty collection of hex wrenches, found the one that fit, put it on the nut, turn, turn, turn, twist, twist, twist, and nothing. I tried again. No progress. Maybe I was turning it the wrong way. It's hard to know when your doing something upside down. I worked it out in my head. Yes, I was turning it the right way. Again, turn, turn, turn, twist, twist, twist. Still nothing. I grabbed hold of the bolt with my left hand and turned the wrench with my right to discover that the bolt was turning with the nut. The dreaded frozen nut problem. I tried holding on to the bolt with pliers; no good. I got a pair of vise grips and set about adjusting it to hold on to the bolt. Unfortunately, the adjusting knob on the vise grips seemed to be rusted so I had to use the pliers to turn the knob. No matter how I adjusted the knob, the dagnabbed grips were either too loose or too tight. And when I finally did get it on and then got the wrench on the nut, there was absolutely no improvement. This called for a more advanced approach–WD-40.

The solution to a good many problems is a squirt of WD-40. I may try it on the keritosis on my hands. It can't be any worse than the poisonous stuff the doctor prescribed. Of course the WD-40 is kept in the shed with the lawnmowers at the far end of the property. And first I had to find the shed keys. I'm not sure why. If you sneezed too hard, the shed door would fall off. I think the purpose of the lock is to hold the door on rather than keep people out. I also went to get a safety light so I could see better. There is no light in the ceiling of the ladies room. There are only four bulbs over the mirror and they don't shed much light into the stall. And of course working on the underside of the toilet adds to the darkness. To my dismay, the miracle cure WD-40 did not help one little bit. There was only one solution left: tear off the plastic doohicky (technical term) that holds the other end of the bolt. This should be simple, I thought, since the bolt is already loose and turning around inside and, besides, the other one fell off all by itself which created this problem in the first place.

There is a cardinal rule about repairs: NOTHING IS EVER SIMPLE! I tried everything I could to tear that sucker off–screw drivers, cold chisel, claw hammer, and vocabulary no man of the cloth should ever use. Nothing had the slightest impact on it.The designers of armored vehicles should talk to the toilet seat people. They're on to something that's nearly indestructible.

I was ready to admit defeat. I had been at this little project for almost two hours except for a break to practice the hymns for the noon service. I was sitting on the floor of the ladies room when three-year-old JC appeared in the open doorway. "What you doing?" he asked. He's a wonderful kid, smart, curious, and verbally precocious. I get along well with him since we have several common interests–trains, tools, cookies, and taking things apart. He knows I have a train set at church for him (although he really prefers the street cars in my office.) Yesterday he went through my tool box sorting everything according to his own classification system: white things in one compartment (he actually uses the word compartment), screws and nails in another, everything else everywhere else. (His grandfather taught him well.) He is also aware that I know where the cookies and crackers are kept. And today, discovering me obviously taking something apart–paradise.

Unfortunately for him, there would be no taking things apart right then. The adults had to work on designing a new church brochure. Looking back, however, maybe if I had given him a wrench he could have gotten the toilet seat fixed. After all, he knows how to work the DVD so a bolt and nut would be child's play. Sometime in the midst of the design work the phone rang. It was the body shop that was going to fix my car. Would I please bring my car back in? The dealer that sold me the car was unable to tell the body shop what the paint number was for my car, so they were unable to paint the bumper cover which was necessary to repair my vehicle. Upon hanging up, I uttered a blood curdling scream and cursed idiocy, incompetence, and moronic car dealerships.

By now I was losing my grip on things. I asked everyone coming to the service if they happened to have a hacksaw blade on them, for it was clear that was the only way to get dad-gummed thing apart. Shockingly, no one was carrying the required hardware. Isn't anybody prepared for an emergency anymore? Suppose terrorists from People for the Ethical Treatment of Eggplants took you hostage because you had once made ratatouille. Wouldn't it be nice to have a hacksaw blade up your sleeve so you could free your self from a dungeon? Well, the hacksaw would have to wait as would the ladies whose facility was temporarily out of order.

I dashed out after lunch to get a hacksaw blade. This would be simple. Aha! I had forgotten the cardinal rule of repairs. NOTHING IS EVER SIMPLE! The first store had no blades. The second one had them, but they had been placed on the display rather after the fashioned employed by some folks in putting tinsel on a Christmas Tree. They appeared to have been thrown higgley-pigley on the rack in no apparent order, none of them matching the little signs that were supposed to tell you blade was on what hook. I finally found what I wanted and got back to the church far later than I had planned. (Thanks Curt and Rita for guarding the building until I got back.) A few minutes of sawing (which amazingly resulted in no injuries) and the bolt was off. A few more minutes and the new seat was on. A few more minutes and help arrived with tools to remove the bolt. (Merle is a great guy, always willing to lend a hand. If he hadn't been bowling with the church group, he'd have been right there doing the job himself. Thanks!)

Now there was time for a bit of pastoral work (writing a report that should have been done a week ago) and conducting the evening service. "Now, the day is over. Darkness draweth nigh." And finally I arrive back home only twelve-and-one-half hours after I left. Peace, perfect peace–except for two messages on the answering machine. One is from a church member complaining about something I have absolutely nothing to do with. The other is from my insurance agency wanting me to call. Now what?

It will all have to wait until tomorrow, because I want to get today's story down while I can still remember it all. Oh, wait. I've left out the part about the gash in Benny's forehead that needed stitches. I'll save that for another time.

May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.


Wayne