Thursday September 16th, 2010

The exercise:

Let's write about: the plumber.

I know I'm a few days late to celebrate Mario's birthday, but our own mustachioed plumber arrived this afternoon to get to work on the cabin and I couldn't resist the prompt.


He's not too slow,
Doesn't cost much dough;
He's neat and clean,
And says what he means;
He stays on track,
Never shows his crack;
Hate asking more,
But the dinosaur
Has got to go.


Greg said...

Lol, you had your very own Mario at the cabin? I trust you had a stack of tortoises on hand to throw at him!
I'd noticed the 25th birthday celebration stuff for Mario, but I'm still not convinced that a video-game character is quite important enough to celebrate such milestones. Maybe it's just because I never played Mario- as a kid :)

I like the poem, it's got a very simple rhyme scheme and quick pace to it. The dinosaur at the end is a neat little twist in the tale. However (I've got more time to be critical today) it's definitely you taking the easy option, because I know you can write more complex (and consequently interesting) pieces! I'll let you off if you update How the Best was Won soon ;-)

The plumber

My pipes rattle like the 5:15
From Saskatechewan is approaching,
A thunderous rumble under the floor
That terrifies the dog, and more.
Yet the water that deigns to dribble
From the gleaming chromium tap
Has less pressure than a jewish mother,
And is as brown as any bap
Sitting cooling on the counter.
The plumber, oh that merciless man,
Whose bodyfat jiggles so much I assumed,
Quite naturally on our first encounter,
That he was she, a darling lesbian,
Tells me in a serious, smoker's voice
That "this is to be expected."
I know I shall have to make nice,
Find a way to apologise for my mistake
That doesn't denigrate my plumber further.
But after that, how could I explain,
That I'm dressing up as him for Hallowe'en?

Heather said...

Marc- It's cute. Wish I had more to say, but I don't.

Greg- Where the heck do you come up with this stuff? A very fun read!

Some people might think I learned my lesson. No. I've had two more instances (not all at my house) and I had to call my husband at work to ask him what I was not allowed to put in the disposal in order to write this. His first response: "It's a good thing your brother-in-law is a plumber."
Thanksgiving is always hectic. This year it was made more hectic by the fact that my husband and I were moving into our first home. It was only 2 miles from our apartment, but the distance felt immeasurable as I basted the turkey and wondered how much longer before my glass baking dishes would arrive. I picked up the phone, which I found buried in a pile of clothing, and called. "Hi sweetheart. Have you found the baking dishes yet? No. Okay. Keep looking or our feast will be lacking. Oh, and I can't find my teaspoons. Can you look for those too? Great! Hope to see you soon."

I hung up and went back to what use to look like a kitchen. The counters were covered instill packed boxes. Old newspapers littered the floors, once having served as coverings to keep glass items from breaking. The sink was full of discarded potato peels, onion chunks, dried bread, etc. I'd set up a card table in the dining room for food preparation, but the actual cooking and clean-up had to occur in what had become a tiny space barely large enough for one person and an oven door.

I breathed out. It was useless to put the casseroles and desserts together without the proper dishware or measuring devices. I walked over to the sink and glanced down at the impressive mound of food. After turning th water on, I flipped the switch for the garbage disposal and listened to the mechanism below grind up the food. Suddenly, it began to choke. I turned the machine off and sent more water down the drain.

Only it wouldn't go down. It simply continued to rise in the sink. With it came small pieces of food. I grabbed a spoon and unpacked the food from the drain, assuming it was just too full. I turned the machine back on. Water bubbled up at me and I heard the machine grind to a nasty halt. In my shock, I didn't notice that even though the machine had stopped, the water continued to flow up and then over the sink and onto my brand new floor. I slipped and fell on mushy bread, my new pants ruined.

As I used the edge of the sink to pull myself up, water flowed over my arm, carrying bits of onions, lettuce, and carrot. I slapped the water off and ran to the closet for towels, forgetting that they hadn't been brought over yet. Dripping with frustration, I dialed my husband again. "The garbage disposal just threw up. I need someone to bring over towels."

There was a mute moment on the phone. In the background I could hear the grunts and groans of men moving heavy items. Tink, tink, tinkle. "They must be moving the piano," I thought.

"What do you mean the garbage disposal threw up?" he finally said.

"I mean I turned it on and it kind of worked in reverse. The floor and me are covered in turkey stuffing and mashed potatoes. Could you please bring over several towels?"

He sighed heavily. "Call a plumber."

"Seriously? On Thanksgiving?"

As I finished asking, I heard him yelling to whom I presumed was his father. "Why don't women know you can't put potato peels in a garbage disposal?"

Marc said...

Greg - if anything, I'd say our plumber's mustache is more impressive than the one Mario has!

And sometimes I like to change things up with my poetry. Sometimes it works, other times it don't.

Great opening lines in yours :)

Heather - what a nightmare! And I must confess: I've never had a garbage disposal in any place I've lived in, so I wouldn't have a clue what does and doesn't go in it :)