Oh, the weekend—how I do love thee. Saturday, I woke up on the couch, Alaya had taken my spot in the bed. The morning was cold. We got the girl up and running for gymnastics, and I stayed behind. I relaxed a little before getting after some projects. Or at least before convincing myself I was about to.
It was a very productive day. I did some digging in the backyard and found a water leak. I hate digging holes. There is no scenario where I think, You know what sounds fun today? Digging. But I was glad I found it. The hard work paid off. We know a kid who’s worked in irrigation for two years, and he came over with pretty much everything he needed to fix it. The people who laid the line did a half-ass job and must have just made whatever they had on hand work instead of doing the sensible thing. Even I knew it was a mess just by looking at it—and I don’t know irrigation. That should tell you something. Digging the hole saved the kid some time and work. Yay. He worked until it was dark, so the job needed a little more time the following day. Because of course it did.
We did the dye test on our toilets and found that one was indeed leaking—silently, like a sneaky little bastard. One of the plumbers hooked me up with a seal to replace on the flush kit, hoping for a simple, less costly fix. I took the damn thing apart and replaced the seal, fully expecting it not to work. Shockingly, it did. That did the trick. No more silent water leak. A rare plumbing victory for me.
Sunday, the kid came back over to work on the water line. He had everything, but alas, the problem wasn’t completely fixed. I think the glue just hadn’t set yet. I told him no worries, gave him some money, and told him to come back when he had time. The meter was turned off, and I had no plans to water the yard anyway. Thank God for a separate irrigation meter—otherwise our house would have been without water, and I would have lost it.
I hate dealing with the water department. Very rarely do you find someone who can actually help you, and more often than not, they’re downright hostile—as if you calling them was insulting. Monday was one of those cases. The lady was on the defensive the moment she answered the phone. I know I have a leak because I can hear the water; I just want to know how much is running. I’ve gone out to the meter and tried to figure it out myself, but the display is full of water and condensation. I can’t read shit. Which feels ironic.
After telling me multiple times that they wouldn’t do anything to make this right, I finally told her I was getting tired of having to call her department every time I suspected I had a fucking leak. Not in as many words. She blew me off, said she’d see what she could do, and basically hung up on me. Customer service at its finest. I’m not holding my breath.
I did finally find a plumber willing to come look for the leak. I’m sure I could’ve found many, but I didn’t want to use one of the big names—the ones with the flashy trucks and even flashier invoices. I contacted my friend, a real estate broker, and asked if he had anyone to suggest. The guy said he’d work me in. My “family” plumber was unreachable, and besides, he’s semi-retired.
After work, it was time to celebrate Lola’s 21st birthday. The immediate family and my mother gathered at Texas Roadhouse, a place I’ve never really understood. It’s always packed. Always. So packed, in fact, that the eleven of us had to wait about forty minutes to be seated. Apparently, people really love loud rooms, peanut shells, and steaks that taste exactly like you expect them to. Why the place is so popular is beyond me because I really don’t find the food all the appealing.
Still, it was a good time. They didn’t have room for all of us at one table, but we managed to sit close enough to shout across. We laughed and played with the babies. I ordered a beer so Lola wouldn’t be the only one drinking—purely out of solidarity, obviously. She finally got the margarita she’d been wanting ever since working there back in high school. Overall, it was a good experience, and I hope she had a great birthday.
Did I mention the cold finally found us? Again? It comes and goes on a whim, like it can’t quite commit. I like it to feel at least a little like the season we’re in. I don’t need it to be in the 80s in January. That’s just confusing for everyone.
I really hate the weeks I have to sit in the office. Have I told you that for the millionth time? If not, we’re getting close. I’m not someone who can sit still—I fidget constantly. I get bored quickly with the internet, which I didn’t think was possible. Time works differently when you’re doing very little. I stay busy with office duties and helping people—working on reports and receivers, replying to emails, answering calls from across campus—but I don’t like doing any of that shit, which makes the week feel endless. It’s like sitting in a doctor’s waiting room where the clock actively hates you.
I found a few moments of escape, but they were few and far between. I filled in for Troy on Monday, which got me out. I volunteered to deliver a 55” TV to the museum for IT to install, which bought me a solid twenty minutes of freedom. I had a shipment to pick up on the north side of town that required my credit card. I try to plan ahead for long office weeks—anything that gets me out of the building. I was lucky this week. Most weeks, I’m not.
I could never be an office drone.
Jalapeño
En Fuego 