It's the little things

     So, in a rare burst of housewifery, I was cleaning the basement bathroom sink:  sprinkle Comet around liberally, push down the stopper to scrub more effectively around the drain, rinse with water. Push the dohicky in back of the faucet to raise the stopper back up to drain the sink. . .push the dohicky in back to raise the stopper. . . push the dohicky to raise. . . .Nothing.

     All the dohicky pushing in the world did nothing.

     Squat and peek under the sink’s more private areas. Jiggle the arm below that raises the dohicky. Nothing. Jiggle. Nothing. Jiggle. Nothing.

     Over to My Guy’s domain to pore over his desk for a sharp but strong object to wedge between metal stopper and sink drain. His sharp, pointy letter opener he’s had for years! Perfect. Then the repercussions of bending this favorite item irreparably broke through. I retreated back upstairs; the sink remained full of water, a delicate turquoise from the Comet.

     A later team effort of removing the pipe elbow below the sink and pushing a looong screwdriver up toward the sink finally raised the stopper, which we pulled out and put to the side. We decided it hadn’t been seated properly, and to do so would require a heckofa lot more dismantling than we were willing to do for a stopper that really never needed to be used anyway. It’s not like My Guy shaves in the basement.

     Later upstairs in the kitchen we told each other that a 75 cent rubber stopper would do the trick.

     The next day at dinner he told me that ads for sink stoppers are now popping up on his online travels.

     Me: Have you shopped for any online?

     Him: Nope.

     Hmmmmmmmmmmm

     Alexa – she who must not be named - sat silent over there on the kitchen counter, and had nothing to say for herself.