So I come home today from running errands.
(You can tell that this is going to be an awesome story because of the killer opening line.)
After unloading the car, I change Sam’s diaper and get him settled in his high chair to play while I get ready for lunch. As I’m warming up his spinach puree in the microwave, I hear a toilet flush. Our toilet. From the bathroom three feet away.
With characteristic elegance, I gasp and lunge for the knife block on the counter. In the split second during which I deliberate between a bread knife and a chopper, the bathroom door opens to reveal my elderly landlord. He has just come by to investigate a recent issue with our kitchen sink. Finding no one at home, he went ahead and checked the plumbing…and then decided to “check the plumbing”.
I was home for almost 10 minutes before he made an appearance.
In fairness, I should note that my landlord is, like me, quite hard of hearing. There are times when this affliction is a blessing (such as all night, when I don’t have to listen to Sam fuss when he wakes), but occasions like this make me wonder if I will someday endanger us all out of sheer ignorance. For instance, I sometimes don’t hear the front doorbell if I’m upstairs, and sometimes people mistake our front door for the entry way into the whole building. Half a dozen times I’ve come downstairs to find a pizza delivery boy in my dining room, looking around for apartment number six. So I’m somewhat accustomed to these mild shocks. But today’s was just worse. On so many levels.
At least he fixed the sink.