It's a wonder I know how to type this little story on a keyboard. I am the biggest know-nothing living in the Mansion. I was happily unaware of that distinction until Mensa President H informed me of the fact today. Three times.
First of all, I dared ask why the kitchen floor of the Mansion has become the latest candidate to host the Winter Olympic figure-skating event. I was left out of the loop during the submission process, only finding out when I stepped a sock foot onto the vinyl and nearly crashed onto the floor harder than a Gillooly-sanctioned club onto Nancy Kerrigan's right leg.
Mensa President H had no idea, unless it had something to do with spraying his boots. What boots and what spray I am happily ignorant of. I can only conjure an image of MPH spraying shiny stuff on his Santa boots. Whatever was entailed, it left the kitchen floor a slippery level slope for bare feet, sock feet, and even Croc feet. MPH later denied any involvement in the iceless capade caper, and soundly chastised me for complaining. How dare I ask the floor-slicker what he did to the floor to make it so slick.
Nextly, I strolled out of my basement lair, thanking my lucky stars for floor traction, and spied Mensa President H and the #1 son laying under the new fake Christmas tree. "That tree is leaning." I consider myself somewhat of an expert in ascertaining whether a tree pipe trunk is at a 90-degree angle with the basement floor, or listing at 80 degrees. Stupid me and my stupidness.
Mensa President H declared in no uncertain terms, from his position on his back looking up at me and the ceiling, that his new tree was straight. I suppose I had only to lay down and look up at it to solve my problem with perspective. After returning to my office, I heard MPH fiddling about, and then heard him tell #1 that now it was straight.
Lastly, after The Pony clogged the main toilet, I dared to inform Mensa President H that it was not flushing properly. I knew that by how the bowl was not filling up with water, and the gurgling bubbling activity with rising bowl water when I flushed it. MPH flopped out of his La-Z-Boy and stormed into the master bathroom, the scene of the crime where The Pony had committed his elimination faux pas before his bath in the large triangle tub. Without even a plunger, MPH flushed and declared the fix was in. I begged to differ. The same symptoms plagued the toilet as before MPH's ministrations.
Mensa President H castigated me for declaring his labor ineffective. If this is the best he can do, I'm not sure what they pay him the big bucks for at work. My job does not involve plunging toilets, but I DO know that you use a plunger for that. Which I did, and devoted 15 minutes to that toilet, and still did not solve the bubbling, gurgling, low-water issue. But I'm sure I could beat Mensa President H in a Lesson-Plan Throw-Down.
Ahh...ignorance is bliss, if nobody is harping about how ignorant you are.
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2 comments:
And I'm sure when the mistakes slap the Mensa man in the face, they're not his fault. Grrr
And it has been so long since I've been on blogger that I have forgotten my password. Sigh.
Chick,
I forgot to mention my inability to use a garage door opener, the same one I have used for 10 years, which would not open the door after 20+ squeezings. I dared inquire as to whether it might need a battery, and was scornfully gazed upon, just before Mensa President H took the opener outside to see if, indeed, it worked.
You know, because I must have forgotten how to use it over the last 10 years, and those things have a perpetual battery that lasts for eternity. MPH deduced that, "I don't know what's going on. Apparently you have something in your windshield that blocks the signal. It worked fine for me just now when I stood on the porch."
Now if I could only find out how my windshield changed from the time I left for the post office and when I returned an hour later, I could accept MPH's conclusion.
In the meantime, I suppose I will have to get out of T-Hoe and walk up on the porch to use my garage clicker.
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