Bathroom Saga

Christmas 2024 – December 24th, 25th, and 26th

Hey there Diary,

Haven’t been around much lately, I know. But I need you now.

Not only do I have very young puppies shitting on newspaper and every other surface they can reach, but I am also now shitting in a pot – uncomfortably, I might add. I haven’t been through something quite so ‘shitty’ in my life, I don’t think. If I have --- I have chosen to relegate it to a forgotten, never-lived past.

This feels like a last straw type of thing. It really does. Almost like some kind of punishment … Have I been unkind, ‘shitty’, or bitchy toward someone recently? Or at some other point in time relegated to the attic of some other life I may have lived, or not? Who knows? It still feels like my house has decided to let me know my pace is not fast enough. It doesn’t suit Miss House – I should name her. Hmmm! I will have to think about it.

And the puppies, they are so cute, so lovable, and so small. It’s cold outside, and they are babies with barely enough fur across their too-close-to-the-snow rotund bellies. I can’t make them go outside – carry them out when they settle to do their business – there are nine of them, after all. I mean... Come on – that’s just too many to catch each one every time. I’m taking care of them temporarily, but, ouf, it is such an inconvenient time.

It all started at the end of November when I realized the sink had been leaking into the sand below for quite some time. How much? I didn’t have a clue yet. So, I condemned the sink – there being no valve installed. My house was built in 1947, and the plumbing was added at an unknown later date. There is a mix and match of materials and inconceivable paths under the four layers of floor I stripped. Four, distinct wooden layers; it doesn’t count the newspaper, cardboard, and linoleum layers.

This started a whole process though, – an ongoing, if not developing, process demanding attention to detail, but not too much – just enough. The house was built somewhat crooked. The supporting beams are huge tree trunks on concrete blocks. The utility basement is 3 feet deep and filled with sand. Thank God for small favours. This aspect significantly reduced damage. A fan going 24 hours a day for a few weeks would take care of it.

A few days later, I removed the sink, which had been placed directly above a supporting beam. It showed water damage. Old water damage. The black rot had dried, and the beam had suffered, but not as unduly as one might imagine. Still, taking no chances, I had it removed and replaced by a new beam on December 23rd. Just a few days ago.

I haven’t written in a while, I know, I have been so busy – but these past few days have just been too much. It is Christmas, and there are events to attend and host – and here I am without a toilet, a dangerous floor and a somewhat chaotic worksite since the workers are sporadic.

One day, I will tell you the floor’s story – one would swear it is alive. It has been talking to me – in a cryptic manner, of course, but speaking nonetheless. I just don’t get it all yet.

Part 2

Dear Diary,

I came to you after Christmas to chronicle the season’s shining beacon of disaster—shit, quite literally. It was a Christmas of chaos, devoid of joy, and somehow, New Year’s Eve decided to match the theme.

I swear, you won’t believe what happened on New Year’s Eve—it was too perfect, too on-theme. It’s January 4th today, and it took me days to process this mess. What a damned coil… what could it all mean?

Seriously, I finally got the toilet fixed and was able to have a somewhat comfortable shit. I say ‘somewhat’ because it wobbled since the floor beneath hadn’t been finished yet. I soon learned which way to lean. And I counted myself lucky to have found someone to come and fix it for under a grand – right between the two Holidays that have framed this whole debacle; a miracle had happened.

It was December 29th, and the puppies were picked up by their owners – finally, that space dedicated to them could be deep-cleaned. The past week had been about keeping them from walking in their shit to prevent them from spreading it – laundry had been an almost insurmountable chore. They had grown during the week; some of them had realized that the newspaper was separated from the blanket for a reason – to give them distinctive sleep and shit spaces.

Oh, and speaking of shit—literal shit—I forgot to mention the puppies’ mom was here too. She had reached her breaking point, refusing to feed them anymore. Her teats were swollen, purple, miserable. So, I played nurse: coconut oil rubs, warm towel wraps… Eventually, she started feeding them twice a day on her own, saving me from the sleepless, round-the-clock feedings. Nine puppies is a lot for any mom – I understood her but was exhausted.

So amazingly, wonderfully, through it all, several miracles had happened – the puppies were being toilet trained and weaned, mom was healing, and the toilet had been repaired. Nothing could go wrong – the sky was the limit. When you have been that low – the only way to go is up! Right?

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe. The toilet was fixed. The puppies were learning. The mother dog, no longer a miserable milk machine, was finally healing. Even the laundry pile had shrunk from ‘impossible’ to merely ‘soul-crushing.’ It was almost poetic—like the universe was finally cutting me some slack. I should have known better. Because just as I dared to believe things were looking up, the tub, that traitorous bastard, decided to leak a steady stream into the already swampy floor. Of course it did.

I know, I know – you can’t make this shit up – but this is exactly what happened, of course! The damned tub started leaking a stream in the already wet sand below. I closed the main coming into the house – there being no damned valves! What the hell? Why didn’t they put valves?

Another miracle! I told my neighbour my saga of shit and water, and her husband—bless him—came over and installed a valve for me. Absolute legend. I still can’t bathe or shower, but at least the basement is drying now.

Ok, finally I can tell you what the whole beginning of this entry was all about and well… you won’t believe this either but … on New Year’s Day at 4:31 AM, I stepped in a pile of dog shit as I came out of my room to let my puppy out for his morning pee.

I have two dogs; neither uses the house as their toilet, but my best friend’s dog was not at his house and he didn’t bother waking her. He dropped a nice load right in front of my door. So, I want you to picture this, dear diary, …

We celebrated the New Year and went to bed rather late – a little worse for wear. My puppy woke me, whining in my ear, insistently letting me know he needed to go out. I dragged myself out of bed and more or less staggered to the door, opened it as I leaned against the frame and stepped out into the living room – right into a pile of shit! For fuck’s sake!!! I think I groaned rather loudly before I hopped to the back door – stopping to find paper towels to wipe my foot perfunctorily. I couldn’t clean it in the tub – now could I?

I can’t believe the year ended and started with so much shit! Thankfully, that was the end of that.

The universe had a message for me – and it was loud, clear, and spelled out in the most inescapable medium: shit. A not-so-subtle reminder: don’t get too comfortable—life won’t let you.

Ok, tired now … will sign off and write again soon! I still haven’t told you about the floor itself. It’s many layers and what I found between them.

Part 3

Dear Diary, Hey There – how have you been?

It’s January 7th today and I am starting to feel better. It has been a full week since 4:31 this morning and I haven’t stepped in shit! And it feels glorious!

The overwhelming activity of the past few weeks has inspired a poem – an acrostic one.

Everything was such a mess, such a scrambling shamble. That’s the name I gave the room – Miss Shambles. At first, I thought it would be the house’s name, but it is more the room’s name.

The house itself is a generally happy place – it housed a chocolate maker for over 20 years before I bought it. It was also the first cooperative bank branch in the late 40’s. People are always joking about me finding money between the walls.

I found a stash of old 1950s newspapers, cardboard and wooden boxes, and layers of linoleum with designs from every decade. Slowly, the bathroom is being repaired.

As I disrobed Miss Shambles, she thanked me with a cascade of relief—each fragile pipe bursting in turn, as if they had been waiting for this moment to let go, to weep, to finally be heard. Each redesign had adorned her, but beneath the polish, she groaned. No one saw the weight she had amassed, the silent strain beneath the surface. Until now—until she wept and let go.

The floor had been a major part of each redesign while paint hid all kinds of horrors on the walls. There was a linoleum on the wall … You read that right! On the WALL, not just on the floor! Notwithstanding the layers on the floors (must be plural because there were several), every type of design and colour scheme was represented - white background with red roses, blue-yellow-and-orange tartan, etc.

I’m not very heavy, yet I could hear it creaking softly underfoot, especially at night – sometimes, even the cat’s steps were enough to make Miss Shambles squeal and squeak. I thought she was a little ticklish and found it endearing! Old houses have voices – often aged with time. This one was still girlish. If I had known what was to come, I might have taken it more seriously …

Sometimes, she groaned under the traffic of guests with their frequent visits to her facilities. That’s when her years showed, moaning as she struggled valiantly through every family gathering and impromptu friendly ‘I was in the area and thought I would stop’ arrival. She wasn’t loud about it – but some people heard her more than others and commented, “You might have to do something about that floor,” as they walked in or out of her open door.

My neighbour even jested about it when I first arrived, “It’s a good thing you are a small woman who lives alone. I feared the next occupants would have a large body or a big family with children. One day, the floor beneath the toilet will finally give way and fall through. You don’t want to be on it when that happens – ha, ha, ha! But you are not at risk, you are tiny.”

At my horrified look, he added, “You’ve got a few more years. I’m the one who fixed the toilet the last time, and I did as he asked. He just wanted an extra board under it. The floor is rotten and needs to be changed; he didn’t want to pay for the work to be done right. Still, the faster you can do it, the better.” He is a kindly old man who has become my Absolute Legend since that fateful conversation.

I answered, “I knew there was work to be done, but I didn’t notice the floor beneath the toilet. I will make sure to have a look and see what I can do about it. Thanks for letting me know.” Not being the handiest of people, I worried about getting things like that done. I knew I would have to hire ‘people’ – how many? Who knew? Where to find them? That was another question. There are fewer and fewer handypeople around.

I had asked the seller about the house, but his answer was simple and unsatisfactory. “I don’t know what was done in that house. It was my parents’. I grew up in it, but it’s been rented for over 20 years. I don’t know what the tenant did while he was there.” I later found out he made chocolate – apparently, some of the tastiest in the county. People came from over an hour’s drive away to get his chocolate. He even made special orders.

Anyway, back to Miss Shambles. As I said, she had started to alert me as to the urgency of the situation slowly, gently - leaking surreptitiously under the sink, almost more like seeping, through the rusted seam of the old galvanized pipe that had seen much, much brighter and better days. It was directly in front of the toilet at the juncture between two supporting beams. Every once in a while, a distant gurgling sound faintly echoed from I wasn’t sure where. I didn’t let it worry me.

She was speaking, but I couldn’t hear. I was still on cloud nine – living in complete disbelief. I had done it, made it happen. I had left the big city and moved to a small, rural village. I don’t drive or own a car. Still, I had decided to move where public transport was unavailable. I knew it would be fine. There is a forest, a river, and a convenience store – all within a three-minute walk. The house had enough land to grow a respectable flower and vegetable garden. What more could one ask for?

I continued to use the sink for a while. She was sweating and crying sporadic tears, drops of exhaustion and despair. I wasn’t listening, and neither was anyone else.

The floors of the rooms on either side of the 5-foot-distant walls that defined her were much lower, having never been finished with more than a few layers of opened cardboard boxes and several weeks’ worth of newspapers, again covered by various layers of linoleum. I could tell her floor had been fortified with plywood. After all, though she was tiny, only 5 feet by 11 feet, she gracefully held a bathtub, a toilet, and a vanity for years upon years. She faithfully fulfilled her purpose, discharged her duty, and dispensed health for all who lived within the walls of the home they shared.

I wasn’t particularly surprised—many old houses have quirks like this. Back then, bathrooms weren’t places people lingered. I ignored her squeaks, creaks, squeals, and groans. Until one day—I couldn’t.

It’s getting late, dear diary. I’m sure you’re bored with all these pesky little details. They seem unnecessary, but for some reason, they belong to the story. They must be told. So, I still haven’t told you much about the floor. I’m getting there. Give me a chance – there is so much background to get through.

I hear you – do I have to tell you so much of it? Since you are me, don’t I already know all of this? Well, sure – I guess I do. But it is a chronicle of a sort. Isn’t it? Keeping a diary, a journal… putting all kinds of tidbits in there. These days, I admit, I have been fixated on Miss Shambles and the chaotic, shambling scramble of a Holiday season we lived through together.

One day, I may want to revisit the experience or share it with its next occupants. Who knows? I need to write it while it’s fresh.

I know, stop complaining. I haven’t written much. It’s not that nothing is happening but that I haven’t taken the time to come have a chat. Yes, yes. YES! I hear you. I will come back more often.

Anyway, I’m tired now, and though the story is not over yet – it is enough for now.