The Rooter Guy…


 

…informed me the other day that my ‘flange‘ was too high.

Excuse me?

No one’s ever been brave enough to point that flaw out to me before, at least not right to my face, and never out loud!

I have to admit I was a little shocked that it was the second thing out of his mouth right after, “I’m the rooter guy MAAM“.

MAAM?

Son of a bitch!

Believe me, I’ve had plenty of experience with inflammatory remarks before mainly because I have kids, but my ‘flange’ for God’s sakes?

This was far and beyond any insult I’ve ever had to deal with.

I excused myself and went to do a mirror check.

Certainly my flange could not be the girls since they’ve relocated all on their own, and they certainly have not moved upwards (except when I pile them into my new sexy Victoria’s Secret bra!) Beside’s that, he said ‘flange’ not ‘flange’s’. He was obviously pointing out something in the ‘singular’.

My butt? Mmm…

Now, if he was referring to my butt, that would actually be a good thing. It would mean all those hard ‘ass’ moves I’ve taken on at the gym were finally beginning to pay off.

But then I saw it, that little pudge that likes to hang over the top of my pants.

OH LORD!

Was he referring to my Muffin Top? That’s singular and all-encompassing.

CRAP!

Perhaps this is why nothing really fits anymore.

Once your flange has been flagged I guess there’s no going back!

I decided to change my top before returning back to where said rooter man was working. Big and baggy would now rule the day.

Upon my return, he glanced up and his expression changed from what had been moderately happy, to something more in the confused category.

More like ‘I was enjoying the view of your cleavage and now I can’t see anything’ kind of disappointed look.

“I liked the other top better,” he said as he pulled more snake out of his rooter machine.

“Oh, I, well…I spilled something on it so I changed,” I shot back.

“Just sayin…the tighter one suits you better!” he says. “I’m just about done here. I cut the flange down so it’s lower and the toilet will sit properly now.”

“Oh?” I say.

“Yeah, the flange has to be set against the concrete, otherwise your toilet will always leak. It’s good now. Shouldn’t leak any more.”

Oh my little mind!

Why, oh, why, do you always have to go there? Always racing around in such an unpredictable way?

As the gate closed, I stood there and watched him drive away.

This was my moment!

I could finally let out my stomach!

I look at it this way. It’s about the only exercise those muscles get, holding it in and letting it out I mean.

Just as I was about to go inside the house, my gardener pulled up.

I opened the gate.

He came in, looked me up and down for a moment.

First thing out of his mouth, “Mrs. Brown, Your weeds are too high!”

CRAP!

I immediately pulled my baggy shirt down to cover my crotch.

What is with these guys?

I excused myself, went inside the house, picked up the phone, and booked an appointment for a Brazillion!

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