the sweet sound of victory

The flusher thing on my toilet has been broken for the past two weeks or so. Every time I've tinkled or poohed, I've had to move the lid on the tank, fish around in there and lift that circular thing at the very bottom to make the toilet flush.

Not fun.

I called the management office several times and left messages reporting the problem. I even saw the office manager in Key Food and told her in detail what was wrong with my can. I was promised it would be fixed right away.

It wasn't.

I followed up and was given a song and dance about their busy workload but once again solemnly promised my potty would be fixed right away.

It wasn't.

My patience was wearing thin. But, as much as it sucks, I've learned in my years of renting that it's not wise to piss off the management office. And I quite like my super and the chick who answers his phone. After all, they did come through during The Great M-o-u-s-e Trauma of 2005. I need them on my side should I need help offing/disposing of any critters again in the future. Oooh, a chill just went down my spine at the thought.

I'm grateful for their past help and understand that they're busy but well, tough shit. I pay good money to live in this ridiculous-sized apartment and my hand should not be swishing around in a toilet tank every time I tinkle or pooh. Call me highfalutin but I just don't care for that little exercise. And that water is cold yo!

So I formulated a plan. I called the office this morning and even though I was pissed, I chose my words very carefully. I gently reminded the manager once again of my toilet troubles. After hearing yet another apology and detailed rundown of their heavy workload, I put on my best Pollyanna voice and said: "Hey, since you guys are so busy, do you want me to just call a plumber? Then I'll send The Landlord the bill or I'll just deduct it from next month's re--."

The office manager cut me off. "Oh no no no NOOOOOOOOOO! That's okay. He'll be there today to fix it. You have my word."

And this time I truly believed her. Know why? Because I played the "I'm Telling The Landlord on You" card. I don't use it often but when I do bust it out, I see instant results. The Landlord is a nice old Jewish man who lives out on Long Island. He likes me a lot and would not be happy to hear about my precious hand going in the toilet every time I tinkled and poohed.

You see, I have a princess act down pat with him. I developed it a couple of years ago. After my reports of mice in the wall went unheeded by the super, I called up the Landlord and acted hysterical and told him he had "enormous rats in [his] nice building." I knew they weren't rats but I played up the irrational angle in order to spark progress. He was a little condescending and told me to "calm down" and called me "young lady" several times but I didn't care. I knew exactly what I was doing. He bought my helpless act and dispatched the workers. Within five minutes, I heard hammers banging as every conceivable hole was boarded up. Futhermore, the exterminator was in the building the next day. No more squeaks and rustles after that... um, until The Great M-o-u-s-e Trauma of 2005, of course.

Tonight when I came home, I made a beeline for the toilet, reached out for the handle, pushed down and... FLUSH!!!!!!!!!!!!

I win.