Old Guys, Orange Aprons, and Potty Talk

My dad truly is Superdad.  He was an athlete, and he looks like he could still play linebacker for San Jose St. He is a bread-winner, provider, and my biggest fan.  He's passed on how to throw a football, catch a fly ball, and how to foul a guy hard in hoops.   There were life lessons in everything, including the myriad of crappy chores assigned to me every weekend.  Unlike the Karate Kid, I didn't get a damn thing out of them except callouses, lost time with my buddies growing up, and use of the VW.  I can read a how-to-book as well as the next guy, but I'm fully exposed the minute I walk into Home Depot.

I can follow directions.  I've built bikes, cribs, and even put together a small computer network for our office.  I'm a relatively educated guy, and that's what makes this so embarrassingly sad for my father.  My recent problem was a crapper.  You pulled the handle, and it wouldn't flush.  I know how to deal with obstructions. Don't tell me you haven't had to reach for the stick of shame sitting next to the bowl a time or two.  It's quite possibly the easiest tool known to man.

Two things about this problem: (1) it wasn't me, and (2) this was a problem of function and not from too much fiber.  My post-golf Sunday afternoon slumber was rudely interrupted by the panicked call of an 8 year old princess.  I opened the back of the toilet, jiggled some stuff, and determined the connector to the upwards pipe water feeder tube looked like it might have some wet-rot. Incrdi-mom said we should call a plumber, but I knew I had this.  Off to the Depot to get some parts.

I walked in rocking Euro-awesomeness...white sunglasses, slips with ankle socks, pink golf shirt, grey plaid shorts with my white belt, and my long hair hanging out of my golf visor.  I ignored the disapproving look from the WWII era greeter, and found the plumbing aisle all by myself (I can read after all).  I knew I was screwed the minute I made the right turn onto Aisle 27.  

There was precisely 100 yards of plumbing stuff.  Apparently shit, or more appropriately getting rid of shit, is big business.  I spent an ungodly amount of my precious free time trying to figure out what I needed by myself.  We had house guests coming and I needed to get that crapper flowing in 45 minutes or less or I would have to let them use MY personal throne...oh...hell...no.  So I did what no man wants to do...I succumbed to that testicle-punch doorbell thingy and rung for help.  When the orange strobe light started flashing I knew I would sincerely regret the move.

I waited for a few minutes acting cool like it wasn't me who pressed the button of shame, and pretended to peruse the aisle of stoppers, handles, and gaskets.  I had just about given up when around the corner comes my nightmare.  Into to Aisle 27 turned a 75 year-old ex-marine with perfectly cropped white flat-top.  He was rocking comfortable work boots, blue jeans with a crease, a light flannel shirt in 100 degree weather, and that unmistakable orange apron. 

This is not Milt, but I found this on Google in 10 seconds.  Must be a uniform.

Milton (from his name tag) looks me up and down with a disapproving look.  "Howdy" pops out of my mouth like I'm riding the ol' range.  What the F was that...howdy?  Milt senses my fear.   "I'm Milt ... you the one that rung the pussy bell?" Okay, he really said "can I help you", but I knew what he meant with that overly helpful tone.  I can tell this guy knows everything about home repair from the massive amount of flair on his apron.  Milt doesn't like long hairs, guys that don't shave on the weekends, or guys that make time to play golf.  Golf is a waste of four hours that could be dedicated to a home project, and slips are worn at the gym when a real man walks buck-naked from the showers to his locker, towel around his neck, with his junk swinging uncomfortably about.  Milt is a man who has lots of tools and knows what they are all called.  I'm the devil in pink. 

Milt asks what's wrong, and I proceed to act out the toilet situation.  Think charades with sound effects.   I explain in no less than 15 gestures, a few body poses, and several air-drawings what I think I need.  First thing out of his mouth ... "rectangle or irregular?"  Oh no...what is he talking about?  I know for a fact Milt was screwing with me because all toilets are square...right?  I tried to buy myself a minute ignoring the question and stumbling stupidly about talking potty talk.  I looked at the product I held in my hand that I'd pulled off the shelf before he got there and it said "Universal Toilet Handle...Fits BOTH Square and Oval Toilets."  Thank God for good packaging.  I knew it wouldn't matter so I confidently guessed "square" (it's actually an oval).   Milt knew I was bullshitting and he was going to have some fun.  

Milt asked me a series of questions I could not comprehend about water pressure, gaskets, raw materials, and finishes.  I calmly nodded and blurted out something I'd heard my old man say many times...."I'm planning on overhauling the guts."  The difference is my dad knows what the guts actually are composed of.  To Milt it just made Milt look at me like I was a little boy dressed for a tea-party.  Milt snatched some stuff out of a few bins, and handed me $20 of parts I had no idea if I needed.  There were flappers, chains, handles, and gaskets.  "You ever done this before" he asked.  I said "no," but the package he'd handed me said "Level 3 of 10" on the "Home Depot Idiot Home Improvement Scale."  I can handle a damn 3/10 any day.  Milt chuckled a disapproving I-hate-pink-shirt-white sunglasses wearing-cell phone internet surfing-yuppies in my aisle laugh.  He says, "don't forget to turn the water off before you start" as he walked away with a look that screamed he couldn't wait to tell all the guys in the back about me. I bolted outta there like I'd stolen all that gut-fixing-gasket stuff.  For the record, I knew to turn off the damn water.

I was right, I could handle a 3/10, but what I can't handle are any more trips to Home Depot.  So to my awesome dad, who literally built a freaking house I say, "thanks for teaching me ALMOST everything I needed to know about being a man" and why didn't you tell me orange aprons are my Kryptonite.