I needed a nice weekend to recover from a dumptruck of bad news.
Instead, Brandi from My Four Bubs bemoaned on Facebook how I wasn’t posting any crazy statuses (statusi?) lately.
And the universe listened to HER.
Universe, you buttshinksy traitor, you.
Of course, it was a blatant invitation for something remarkably stupid to happen to me. And if you never hear it elsewhere, you know you can always get the truth here:
CLEANING CAN AND DOES CAUSE INJURY!
IT IS HARMFUL!
AND SOMETIMES REALLY, REALLY GROSS!
I was on my own for the day with Mr. Daddy helping someone move. I plunked the kiddo into the bath where he played with approximately 119 small plastic toys and I examined the weird rust marks on the floor.
(requisite bath baby picture from ages past)
So I did what any good person at home on a Saturday does… I busted out the Clorox wipes and went to work on those dumb marks.
City Chick education here: this thingy is a toilet water supply line:
Do not touch them.
They are seriously ticked off beings.
See, I bumped (literally BUMPED) it while scrubbing.
And suddenly my kid was screaming, I was screaming, and the Pacific Ocean dropped three feet and freaked Al Gore out.
Seriously, y’all. You think what flows through that tiny little
ticked off tube is this?
It’s Old Faithful… right in your face.
That was me. SCREAMING as the frigid blast of Niagara Falls pummeled my tonsils with the force of 2000 dental rinse sticks.
I shook my head desperately to breathe while my glasses were slammed against my eyeballs and making a dent in my brain matter.
Through eyes that were swimming upstream the last Splash Mountain drop, I realized the geyser was coming from the FLOOR.
I grabbed that stupid angry tube and tried frantically to reconnect it.
Then I realized the metal had been sheared clean off.
(I’m talented like that).
I am soaked from my gray hairs to my socks with mascara escaping in huge rings under the deluge. Itty Bit is cowering at the far side of the tub screaming.
And as much as I am totally wholly utterly completely disgusted that something even remotely touching the toilet is spraying in my face…
(Instinct, y’all, instinct. As long as air is being forced OUT of my lungs, I can’t drown, right?)
As the water level on the floor begins to approach two inches (not.even.kidding), I finally do the only smart thing all morning: I find the shut-off valve through waterlogged eyeballs and desperately turn it.
This picture, as completely awful as it is… does not do it justice. My hair was dripping, my pants were sloshing, my shirt was soaked through. Every ounce of makeup pressure-washer blasted off my face. I was actually surprised to see my glasses survive the dam break.
(Love that a friend commented how I am game to post the worst pictures of myself on social media… keeping it real folks, keeping it real.)
When the spray suddenly stopped, Itty Bit and I looked at each other silently. Until both of us were able to stop breathing hard.
Key fact: Itty Bit does not like water on his face.
Hate may not be a strong enough term.
He looked at me, with the most serious confused expression and said,
WHAT WAS THAT??
I exhaled and dripped another 14 gallons of water from my hair.
“I don’t know Boogie, I don’t know”.
He looked at me in shock, then in measured tones (because my apparent stupidity was so obvious)
“Why did you do THAT?”
Oh Boogie. I don’t know, I just don’t know.
(but really, I do. Because the universe wanted me to, honey.)