“Well, if worse comes to worst, you
can always pee in the sink!” my forever-searching- for-the silver-lining friend
“Rose” in Wisconsin suggested helpfully.
(*Insert pregnant pause here, as I physically slapped my hand
against my face ala Jack Benny at the horror of those particular shenanigans*...)
>>><<<
In “hind-sight” (if you will), I recalled my singular summer abroad, studying the
Fine Arts of Italian frescos, sculptures, architecture and literature in the
glorious city of Florence, Italy; my exotic (albeit chaperoned) weekends to
visit Pisa, Lucca, Bologna, Milan, San Gimignano, Carrara, Venice and of course
Rome, wherein I not only had the incredible experience of actually taking
Communion (I’m not Catholic) with
none other than Pope John Paul II (I
didn’t even burst into flames!) inside the holy walls of St. Peter’s
Basilica (seriously, who could turn down
sharing a spot of wine with the Pope?!), but also the opportunity to toss a
few lucky lira into the Trevi Fountain.
Unfortunately, apparently this particular
evening, the Trevi Fountain remembered me too...
Eying the geyser spewing forth from
the back tank of my toilet, I wasn’t quite sure what to do other than throw
lira. But watching my bathroom fill up
with nearly a quarter inch of water on the linoleum, I scooted my beloved skull
rug out of the way, managed to re-cap the squirting thingamabob, grabbed a cup
from the kitchen and effectively emptied out the tank into the sink before any
real damage could occur.
*Phew!*
Granted, if I needed to use my
facilities I could always refill the back tank with water for a proper flush,
but quite frankly the situation was absolutely unacceptable! And shooting off a STRONGLY WORDED email to our new Property Management Supervisor, I went to sleep early in anticipation of immediate reparations the following morning.
>>><<<
Awakened the next day by the
incessant drip-drip-dripping noise of water filling up into my waste basket as
the back tank had not only miraculously refilled itself overnight but had also begun
spilling out through the toilet handle (FFS), I called and emailed the new
Property Management Supervisor yet again.
(Voice mail.) Additionally,
ringing the land lines of Deceased Landlord’s Wife, and occasionally On-Site
Deceased Landlord’s Sons, I continued to receive nothing more than answering
machines.
(I never EVER thought I’d say this; but I actually MISSED my
Crappy Landlord who was an ABSOLUTE WIZARD with duct tape!)
And that’s
precisely when I chose to go old school.
Whipping open my monster 3-inch tall,
official printed hard copy of the Los Angeles Yellow Pages, I zeroed in on a
colorful two-page advertisement for “Mr. Rooter Man”.
“Yes, we DO work 24/7!” Alfonso
beamed over the phone. “My technician
Mandel should be there by 6pm!” he confirmed as I trotted down the street – a “wee”
bit hungry, but also in search of a viable ladies room prior to the gentleman’s
visit.
“Do you happen to have public
facilities?” I asked politely at the restaurant as I was directed to a locked side
door after ordering my steak taco with avocado and a Diet Coke as proof that I
was an actual paying customer.
“Someone might be in there, but I’m
sure it’ll just be a minute” the gal who took my order smiled politely as the entrance
finally opened.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm; so sorry Soul Sister
for taking the stall too long” the Transvestite in hospital scrubs *snap* apologized
to me for monopolizing the “ladies room”.
“No worries!” I waved, rather
off-handedly; the least of my troubles for the day.
>>><<<
Poised for a lovely lunch on the
patio ala Audrey Hepburn enjoying a belated breakfast at Tiffany’s, I elegantly
placed a napkin on my lap as I patiently awaited my taco. 
However, much to my chagrin, I found
myself downwind of the “aroma” of a few homeless fellows, backpacks in hand who
were discussing where they used to buy needles in my neighborhood ten years
ago, as well as their burgeoning friendship on the bus as they were both
apparently just released from prison on parole and headed to camp out on the
beach after lunch.
Aw, C’MON!!!
>>><<<
Suffice it to say, greeting Mandel
at my door, accompanied by BOTH Sons of my Deceased Landlord who were obviously
concerned with our building maintenance (not
to mention the excessive cost of a Plumber on a SUNDAY), I actually offered
to split the bill if need be since I had called Mr. Rooter Man on my own.
“Absolutely not” both Sons of Yang
shook their heads. “I should’ve properly
fixed your toilet way back when” the Younger Yang hung his head sadly.
“You mean the ‘Great Flu of 2012’?”
I nudged him (somewhat) playfully.
>>><<<
With his trip to and from Home
Depot, Mandel straddling the porcelain like a rodeo rider lassoing a stray
bull, and with me just trying to stay out of the way, I lurked ala Bela Lugosi
as to the infiltration of my bathroom. (Darn it!
I couldn’t get to my black velvet cape yet again!) 
“I’m almost done in here” Mandel
announced, as I peered furtively around the corner. “You work in television, don’t you?!” he queried. “I know that I know your face!” he alleged
with his Smart Phone in hand.
(Oh, FFS... The World Wide Web can’t spell my name correctly, but my Plumber
could ferret out half of my resume on-line?)
“Okay if I use your restroom?” Mandel
asked, shutting the door before I could answer.
“Well, Hell’s bells, I’d be downright
disappointed if you didn’t!” I muttered to myself, as thus far this whole year,
every single maintenance person in my Sanctuary seems to feel the need to mark
their territory!
>>><<<
Awakened at 9am on a day wherein
I’ve never EVER been invited to work on my current show, I tried to shake off the
drama of the night before as I gratefully accepted an additional day of employment
and promised to arrive within two hours.
Even the “Advertising Executive” who
lives upstairs (I still think she’s a
hooker), managed to throw on a blue terry-cloth towel and consented to
moving her car at 10:15am for me to gear up for work!
Unfortunately, my toilet was not so
agreeable...
Having run, recycled, hissed and
haunted me all evening (yet no more Trevi
Fountain!), I threw my hands in the air and headed to the studio where
“Dramedy” resides in a significantly more controlled environment.
Granted our Lead Actor had just
phoned in that he was out ill for the day, which left my fellow Stand-In (April)
thrown under the bus to play “the Dad” on the show for rehearsals and Run-Thru;
which by default sort of left me standing-in for almost everyone else in the
mega-cast of Guest Stars; not to mention the fact that as one of our young
Actresses and her Stage Mom were running late to an audition moments before our delayed in-house performance; our
Director had no choice but to toss one of our Second Second ADs into
the frying pan of mayhem, who nailed the role most effortlessly.
(Like I said; “Dramedy”, in a lovely controlled sound stage with
catered food and working lavatories.
Easy-peasy!)
Yet upon returning home to my humble
bat-cave that afternoon, the unwelcome, unrehearsed and unprofessional drama
continued.
And thus, in a nutshell, became my bizarre
circus of an evening down the drain:
Trotting upstairs, I told Younger
Yang face-to-face that the toilet is still running. Younger Yang calls Mr. Rooter Man. (No show.) I call Younger Yang again as to possible arrival time?
Younger Yang tells me that Mr. Rooter Man was supposed to call ME.
Younger Yang has receipt handy, but
suggests that I phone Mr. Rooter Man instead.
Now throw “Alfonso” into the mix,
who tells me that Younger Yang did indeed call, and Mandel was supposed to
schedule me at 7pm. (Alfonso is not sure
why not.) Alfonso will send “Ed” instead; but usually prefers to have the previous technician (Mandel) on-site as they are already aware of the problem.
“You mean the same guy who screwed
it up the first time?” I grimaced.
Next at bat, was none other than Carlos
calling (I know that the brilliant voice-over
Artist Mel Blanc passed away, but apparently “Speedy Gonzalez” still lives and
thrives in Hollywood!).
“Is this Mrs.
Pickles?” (Please share with me, kind readers, yet one more comedic Jack Benny
hand-slap to my face?)
“Oh, I must’ve misread the
invoice. Sorry Mrs. Pickles!” he
continued without missing a beat. “I
just wanted to let you know that Ed is going to be late; like maybe 10:30 or 11:00pm. And since Mandel is already off the clock, maybe
you could reschedule Mandel for tomorrow?”
Oh, FFS...
With Ed ‘presumably’ headed my way
eventually, my land line rang repeatedly as Mandel had been given a head’s-up
notice as to my broken “head” of a toilet. And incessantly calling me over and over with ‘helpful’
suggestions (i.e., “Can you jiggle the apparatus that I installed? Maybe push down on the lower half?”) he wondered,
as my lavatory began flushing and hissing much louder. “How about if you move the bottom section
directly underneath?” he phoned again and again.
“Or, how about we just full on cancel
Ed and YOU can freakin’ DEAL with my Landlord tomorrow while I’m at work?!” I
answered flatly for the final time.
Hmmm...
Never knew I had it in me, but note
to self -- don’t piss off “Mrs. Pickles”!As to "Part Three" in this series: I'm still mid-typing as I attempt to gather my thoughts. Sometimes, there's just TOO MUCH to write!!!
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