If You Were Here

And then we drink.

And then we barf in the three remaining toilets.

“It could have happened to anyone,” Mac reasons.

“Is that right?” I snap. “Because I watch even more HGTV fix-up shows than you, and some of those homeowners are beyond dumb, like they don’t understand the concept of not touching live wires or wet paint. Yet I’ve never once seen a single toilet fall through their ceilings, let alone two.”

After Toiletgate, the girls and I spent the whole night cleaning up the library. . and swilling bourbon.⁹⁸ Shards of potty flew into every corner of the room — under couches, behind books on the shelves, in the fireplace, etc. After we’d finally retrieved all the pieces that could pierce tender paw pads and bare feet, we hauled my trashed desk and computer equipment into the hallway, thus completely blocking the entrance to the dining room.

What makes me angriest is that I hadn’t run a backup since I added all that material to the new book, so those pages are gone. Since I’m so freaking furious, I can’t really concentrate enough to recall what I wrote, either.

Fortunately, I still had the board-up company’s information, so getting the window covered was easy. Untangling the chandelier from the sticker bushes was less so, and my arms appear to have gone three rounds with a Mixmaster. Naturally, both processes inspired new neighborhood petitions. Oh, what’s that you say, Lululemon, Citizen Cane, and Elbow Patches? You’re bothered by the boarded window? Join the fucking club.

We cordoned off the bathroom with the open floor and booked a handyman, although he can’t be here until late next week, as apparently everyone in the Cambs is doing renovations.

Mac and I reached an uneasy truce, because I desperately hate being mad at anyone, particularly the person who’s most important to me in the whole world. Mac was unbelievably contrite and helped me piece together a rudimentary work space until my new furniture arrives. So instead of tapping away on my desktop with the thirty- inch UltraSharp monitor while reclining in a posture-fit, multiadjustable Aeron chair, I’ve been parked in an ass- flattening metal folding chair, squinting at an old laptop that’s sitting on top of a door supported by moving boxes on either side. The only way I’ve consoled myself is that the whole setup feels vaguely Amish.

All of that being said, one would think Mac might hang up his tool belt, but no. Then while I was out today, Mac decided to try to replace another toilet. He said he wanted to surprise me.

When I came home to find a second toilet shattered on the floor of the opposite end of the library — this time powder blue — trust me, I was surprised.

The weather’s warming up and the house is stuffy and full of the stench of failure, so I’m going around opening windows. This will give me something to do with my hands, considering they seem to want to wrap themselves around Mac’s neck at the moment.

Mac is right on my heels. “I said I’m sorry. I really thought I had it right this time, but toilets are a lot heavier than you’d think, especially the older ones.”

I can’t even look at him, because I’m afraid I’ll lose my temper. “Uh-huh.”

He continues. “I mean, I did all kinds of research on the Internet, and I referenced a couple of plumbing manuals, and other than dropping it, I did everything right. I blame the floors. I suspect they can’t handle a live load.”

“Mmm,” I intone through closed lips.

“Listen, you can’t be mad at me. I was just trying to help, and theoretically, everything should have worked.”

We’re in the living room now and I’m trying to get the big window open, although it appears to be a bit stuck. “Here’s the thing, Mac. Your problem is that you’re too theoretical.”

“How so?”

I throw my weight into opening the window and it only budges a few inches. Argh. “Meaning you’ve spent your whole career designing computer networks but — Jesus, what’s up with this window? — but I bet you’d be hard-pressed to actually build one yourself. Same thing with the plumbing. You absolutely understand the theory behind putting in a new toilet — Argh. Come on!” I step back, inspect my progress, and then throw my shoulder into getting it lifted.

I continue. “You have a profound understanding of the macro level of everything — networks, plumbing, weaponry, et cetera. But on the micro level, you’re lacking. I suspect you don’t even know what it is you don’t know. There was probably a small installation facet you missed—Damn. It. Open. Please. — and that one tiny microdetail is probably the difference between my happily reading Us magazine on the john and having the commodes rain down in my office.”

I begin to slam my whole side into the window while hoisting it up. “Want some help?” he offers.

“I’ve got it, thank you. You’re like those guys who—stuck hard, argh—are so convinced they know where they’re going—oof—that they refuse to ask for directions and—” I give the window one more tremendous shove and I’m suddenly enveloped by a warm spring breeze.

The window is open.

And by “open,” I mean “lying in the sticker bushes outside.”

I’ve somehow managed to knock the entire window out of its frame and onto the ground.

“Oh, my God, Mac! Help me! Shit! What did I do? Mac, can you help me get this damn thing back in?”

Mac moseys over to inspect the damage. “Well. . theoretically, I understand why the window fell out, but in practice, I may simply not know what I’m doing. You see, on a macro level I have an idea of where you went wrong, but on a micro level. .”

When we try to reinstall the window, it basically shatters into a million little pieces.

You know what? I can’t take this.

I’m calling Babcia.

Chapter Ten. MUCH ADO ABOUT DRAWER PULLS

“You’ve got six weeks.”

“I need more like three months.”

“You’ve got six weeks.”

I’m on the phone with my literary agent, Natalie, and we’re discussing my deadline for Rumspringa-ding-ding. I’m critically behind schedule because I sold the book before I actually wrote it.⁹⁹ The manuscript is due in two weeks, but Nat was able to push that due date back till the end of June. Normally it takes me six to eight months to complete a novel, and at this point in the process, I should be finished writing. This is when I’m usually scrubbing the manuscript for errors and word choice.

Unfortunately, I’ve been somewhat distracted for the past few months, and most of what I’ve written is. . craptacular. According to my niece Claire, I’m way off on my content. She tells me teenage girls don’t spend much of their free time discussing drawer pulls, and by “much,” she means “any.” But my God, have you been to a custom cabinetry showroom lately? Not only does every choice come in a minimum of nine different metal finishes, like polished nickel, polished chrome, satin nickel, satin chrome, oil-rubbed bronze, antique bronze, pewter, wrought iron, and stainless steel, but they’re also available in tons of other material, like art glass and granite and porcelain.

And shapes? Can we talk about shapes for a minute? There are bail pulls and cup pulls and bar pulls and finger pulls and pendant pulls! How about knobs? Don’t even get me started on knobs! What’s your poison? A square knob? A T-knob? Maybe a nice oval knob?

And all of that’s before you even come close to making a decision on the cabinet itself. Do you want them stained? Glazed? Painted? Would you like an arched cabinet? A raised-panel cabinet? Beveled? Unbeveled? Oak? Maple? Rubberwood? Laminate? Stock? Semicustom? Custom? Framed? Unframed? Argh!