The toilet is important. The toilet is a sanctuary. When the toilet is destroyed, for the third time in a row, the bathroom is tarnished, and our lives are temporarily halted in place, having to make do with what we have. There’s a public toilet down the hallway, but we have to pass by the large bay windows peering into the gym, where rough and tough bodybuilders observe us walking in our pajamas back and forth. It’s not a pleasant sight, to say the least. When it comes to walking in my pajamas, doing it in front of bodybuilders is definitely my least favorite part of the whole process.
If there’s one constant about this apartment, it’s the toilet and waterworks problems. One day it’s the dishwasher (which we don’t use), another day it’s the toilet flooding over its head. Some days it’s the washing machine’s turn to act up. Either way, something is almost always acting up in this apartment. It feels like we call maintenance at least once a month for something to be fixed.
An update: As I’m writing this, the toilet has been fixed. Hooray!
Unfortunately, this still means that Angus, our illustrious dog, is still locked up in the bedroom with his water, sloth, and bone. I wish I could’ve told the guy who came to fix the toilet to let him out, but that’s against the whole point of locking Angus up in the first place. We need to protect one person from the vicious, happy-go-lucky pet we have. If only the maintenance people had come during the other three days that were available, then maybe we wouldn’t need to trick Angus into entering the bedroom before I leave for work. It’s disheartening to do, and I hate hearing his moans and worries.