''There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.''
-- Hamlet
Mysterious machinations happen whenever I approach certain machines. I must emit magnetic signals that encourage vacuums and toasters, for example, to vomit dust, flame out or simply balk.
My husband often tries to demonstrate computer-agility, so I'll explore my own machine's vast potential to amaze. But the minute I sit down warily and eye his laptop, the mouse freezes; the wretched machine won't even switch off!
Alas, the most mystifying refusals happen with my two toilets.
To be blunt, these simple mechanisms dislike me. The drainpipes vibrate as they gurgle and mutter furtively, plotting watery ways to reject my offerings.
But why? I keep them clean; the Roto-Rooter man annually grinds away deep roots; only posh paper's dumped into their gaping mouths. Honestly, I've done nothing to provoke them, ever.
My plumbing is ancient; replacing the century-old, deeply buried tiles would mean massive excavations, thereby eliminating the garden. Unthinkable! So being solicitous makes sense.
I've replaced most parts -- even explored the downstairs loo with a flexible steel snake to induce decent swallows -- nada. So, reluctantly, the plumber was summoned. I flushed with a flourish to show how it would overflow; to my consternation, it worked perfectly. Arghhh!
Tutting and tsking, "monsewer" lectured at length on how to properly flush the loo (which took forever; the guy suffered from verbal diarrhea). Finally, he rendered his diagnosis: slightly raise the water level; install a better lever (and adjust the tank chain) to eliminate the problem. His storeroom housed the proper one.
After three hours of seeking and tweaking, he pronounced it fixed: I got a triumphant demonstration. Flushed with success, he proffered a bill for $240 (initial house call fee, time, $25/parts and labor). Mon Dieu!
The minute he left it regurgitated. I refused to summon him again; a gold-plated gulper could be mine for that price. (But why bother? New "privy" plumbing's no different.)
I've discovered how to beat the intermittent overflow problem: I hold down the lever until it swallows. This usually works. But when others use it, what then?
A friend gifted me an antique white porcelain urinal to cheer me up; I hung it on the bathroom wall using an Ace Hardware magnet, and stuffed it with flowers. But I'm still down in the dumps.
My late mother painted, framed, then posted me a lavishly decorated French Victorian toilet's portrait, complete with exposed plumbing and discrete wallpaper. These words appear: "C'est ici qui tombent en ruines tout les talents de la cuisine."
Her artwork hangs cockily behind my miscreant, but humor mitigates frustration just so long.
The toilet is not amused.
In college I earned pocket money painting silly slogans on "throne" seats to sell to fraternities -- stuff like: ''The Pause That Refreshes,'' ''Feed Me,'' ''Watch For Alligators,'' ''Take It Or Leave It,'' ''Plop-Plop, Fizz-Fizz.''
Maybe my toilet's discovered these cheeky indiscretions; it's certainly old enough! (Gossipy exaggerations are probably exchanged through vast, interconnected sewer lines; these bored porcelain prima donnas thrive on all manner of dirt.) Maybe mine, having spookily dragged my collegiate past out of the water closet, now poops out its own version of Montezuma's Revenge. Maybe it's so politically sensitive that "toilet water" on my perfume bottle is enough to set it off. I dunno.
Meanwhile, the tank cover squats on the floor so I can monitor the evacuation situation. Perhaps today it will relent, and accept deposits that won't return. Maybe, just maybe, it'll remember its mantra:
"Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here"
Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at blairdee@gmail.com.
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