Superglue Crisis

Last night at about 11:30, I had settled into bed and was just drifting off to sleep when I heard cries for help coming from the bathroom.

"Rachel! Rachel! Come quick! I need you!"

Fearing catastrophe, I sprang from my bed and ran to the bathroom. Jonathan yelled, "The toilet's broken!"

Indeed it was. For those of you who have not had a chance to become as intimately acquainted with the inside of a toilet as I have, here's how it works.

As seen in the picture, the lever you pull is connected to a long plastic arm.The other end of the arm is connected to a chain that, in turn, is connected to a stopper. When lifted, the stopper lets water into the toilet bowl, causing it to flush. All the water in the toilet tank is clean. This is a very important point for my sanity right now. (Although if it weren't, I would have a story to rival Hannah's. As an aside, you really should read Hannah's story. It is hilarious.)

Anyway, our plastic arm had broken off from the lever. I fished it out of the tank (which is why it's so important that the tank water is clean). We looked at it, and one of us said, "This looks like something we can fix with superglue!" Bad, bad, bad idea #1. Now, it may have been a decent idea if we had any functioning superglue. But no. The only superglue we have around the house is superglue that we've already used once, which means that the cap is unremovable because it is bonded to the part that's supposed to make dispensing the glue easy. We figure, no problem. We'll just take off everything and pour the glue out. Bad, bad, bad idea #2.

Now, at this point, I was holding the plastic arm, and Jonathan poured the superglue onto the end. Unfortunately but predictably, it ran down the sides of the plastic arm. I didn't notice because my hand was already wet from toilet tank water. We shortly realized we didn't know the exact way the plastic arm was supposed to reconnect with the lever. So I tried to reposition my hands so we could try again.

Didn't work.

My hand was glued to the toilet! Now, I realize that sounds a little dramatic. It would be slightly more accurate to say my hand was glued to the plastic part of the toilet's flushing mechanism. Either way, I couldn't move my hand more than about four inches (the length of the chain) from the toilet.

I panicked. Jonathan laughed. I didn't appreciate it. I was identifying with the people who have to cut off their own arms to escape entrapment. I was pretty sure we'd have to cut off my forefinger and thumb, or at least rip off all the skin from my fingertips. "I'm going to bleed!" I yelled.

After a few minutes, I calmed down and read the instructions on the tube of superglue. "Avoid use of excessive force to free bonded area." I was slightly less calmed.

Eventually it occurred to me that acetone might dissolve superglue. I told Jonathan. He asked where we could find acetone. I said nail polish remover. Unfortunately, we had none lying around. "What else would work?"

"I don't know! Check the internet."

So while I sat glued to my seat, Jonathan ran and checked the internet. Suggestions: Nail polish remover, or just pick at it until you are freed. I suggested that I was not thrilled with the prospect of picking myself loose. It sounded too much like the "leave my fingertips behind" idea, and the container had warned about using excessive force. So Jonathan left to go to the store and I sat and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Seriously, twenty minutes has never seemed like a longer time. Finally, Jonathan got back with nail polish remover. After a few minutes of trying to rub it around the edges of my fingers, I decided that what I really needed was to immerse my fingers and the plastic part in acetone so the glue could really dissolve. So we ripped the plastic part free from the chain (it was broken anyway, and we didn't have much to lose at this point), poured the nail polish remover into a tupperware container, and I immersed my fingers in it.

A few anxious minutes later at about 1:00 am, my fingers were freed, minus a few bits of skin that stayed stuck to the plastic. But at least there was no bleeding.

And that is almost the end of the story. Minus the part where we still can't flush our toilet with the lever. Once again, good thing the water in the tank is sanitary.

Kids Say What Now? Part 2

Remember how I teach the six-year-olds at church? I still do, but they changed my class members at the beginning of the years. So now I have a whole new crop of rising leaders. They're all pretty awesome, and they definitely have their quirks.

Child 1 is in love with me. Every week he makes sure he's sitting by me and he asks if a) he can kiss me or b) I will kiss him. Every week I tell him no. The advantage of his major crush is that he tries really hard to pay attention so I'll be impressed.

Child 2 and Child 3 are hyper-competitive. They are both positive that they are the rightful winner of every contest, and everything is a contest to them. 2 and 3 are the fastest, strongest, most karate-knowing, best at reading, best at writing, and have the strongest and fastest brothers and fathers. I suggested that they see who could be the most reverent and display the most church-appropriate behavior. I'm not sure how well that turned out. On the one hand, they stopped bragging about who could kick the other's head hardest. On the other hand, every thirty seconds they would ask me who was being the most reverent and inform the other that it was not them. "I'm quieter than you!" "No, I'm quieter!" "I'm the quietest one!" "Well, I'm better at paying attention than you!"

Child 4 I actually have no hilarious stories about. She's pretty sweet.

Child 5 is certain that everyone is conspiring against her. The kids are still at a stage where they love participating. Every time I ask for a volunteer to do anything (say a prayer, read a scripture, hold a picture, run to the library for some chalk, etc.), I get five hands raised. And whenever 5 is not the one who is picked, tears ensue. Today she cried because:
1. She hit Child 3 with a chalkboard eraser and he took it away from her.
2. Children 1-4 were hiding under their chairs.
3. She gave the prayer last week, so I asked Child 1 to do it this week.
4. I chose Child 2 to go to the library for chalk. She cried that everybody else gets to go to the library. Why doesn't she? I pointed out that children 1, 3, and 4 didn't go to the library either.
5. She was going to go second in the game instead of first. Child 4, who was set to be first, switched with her. Told you she's sweet.
6. She "didn't get very many" Starbursts, which I brought for treats. Besides, they "weren't very special." (Note: She really did get just as many as everybody else. And she told me before class that they're her very favorite.)
Fortunately, the tears don't last long. Within thirty seconds or a minute, she's all smiles and helpfulness again.

Oh, and remember Paul/Ethan? Yeah, his name is actually Scott.

Yuck

Some things should not be done. Ever. And certainly not in public. Fortunately for me, I encounter the people who disregard common sense and social mores.

Yesterday I walked into a public restroom on campus. Now, I usually assume that it isn't any of my business what people do in restrooms. If somebody wants to talk on the phone, I think it's kind of odd (mostly because if I were talking to somebody and suddenly heard a toilet flush, I would be a little weirded out), but I'm not going to judge them. But I will admit that I was pretty shocked to see a lady eating her lunch in the restroom. Using the baby change station as her table. Um, gross. Not twenty feet away from the restroom is a lounge, including tables (real tables) and chairs (soft, comfortable chairs). If she really, really wanted to eat in the bathroom, there's a rarely used mother's lounge that also has a small table and a couch. Who chooses hunching over a diaper changing table instead of eating her grapes in comfort and hygiene?

Police Beat

As many of you already know, the police beat is frequently the best part of BYU's daily newspaper (along with the typos). Here's a gem from today.

Jan. 14: A female student reported a male who made her feel uncomfortable at the WSC [Wilkinson Student Center] by asking her what she was doing there.

That's good. I'm glad we have our strapping police officers to protect us from people who talk to us in public buildings and ask us non-threatening things. Seriously, I wouldn't call the police for anything less than an explicit threat. Not for being asked what I was doing. Not for being asked for money. Not for being asked for a favor, or even for a more uncomfortable proposition. In Wales, I didn't even think about calling the police when I was asked to examine a newly-released from jail drunk man's knife wound.

I wonder if she works as a receptionist. (Post with the same date)

Jan. 14: A suspicious male entered the Center for Service and Learning and asked a female receptionist about the enrollment on campus and the purpose of the building they were in. The receptionist thought his questions were suspicious and reported him to police. No further action was taken.

Maybe she just really wanted to make the police beat but didn't want to commit a crime?

How to Occupy a Sunday

1. Go to church.
2. Eat lunch.
3. Study scriptures.
4. Check time. Only 1:00? This is going to be a long day.
5. Check facebook.
6. Check email.
7. Play tetris.
8. Check facebook again.
9. Read about Frida Kahlo, her husband, and various other subjects linked from their pages.
10. Play the Papa H game.
11. Make dinner. Even though you're bored, do not follow the trying-to-seem healthy and upscale Pasta Roni directions. No, I will not stir constantly for 18 minutes. Yes, it turned out fine.
12. Play the Papa H game some more.
13. Check email and facebook one more time.
14. Post vaguely whiney facebook status about being bored. Be disgusted with yourself for perpetuating something you disapprove of on principle (namely, vaguely whiney facebook statuses).
15. Check time again. 6:15? Why is time going so slowly?
16. Pluck eyebrows. Floss teeth.
17. Check facebook. Check email.
18. Try to think of a decent blog post idea. Fail. Decide to write a list of what you've done today instead.
19. Write dumb blog post.
20. Check time again. 7:10? You've got to be kidding me.

The Further Adventures of Jonathan

Remember how sometimes Jonathan talks in his sleep? And it's generally confusing and amusing for all? Yeah, it still is.

On Friday morning Jonathan woke up.

Me: Good morning.
Jonathan: Where are the pop-ups?
M: What?
J: The pop-ups! Where are they?
M: I don't know what you're talking about.
J: Where are the pop-ups? We just got them at a warehouse recently! There was a bride, and a groom, and a wedding cake statue thingy.
M: What warehouse?
J: Ugh! Fine, maybe it was Wal-mart, but that's basically a warehouse.
M: OK, I still don't know what you're talking about. I'm going to get up now.

At this point, he decided to give me a taste of my own medicine. If I was going to obstinately refuse to understand, so was he.

Jonathan: Up? What's up?
Me: Go back to sleep.

The Genre that Shouldn't Exist

The other day I was at Barnes and Noble when I found myself near this lovely sign. Since when does teen paranormal romance deserve an entire section of the bookstore? It's not really a legitimate genre. It seems a little too derivative for talented writers to aspire to, especially since I'm pretty sure we can all name the one series that kick-started all the others. Worst of all, even if there are some really great books in there, I can't ever read them because I simply couldn't live with myself if I shopped in the teen paranormal romance section. Bummer.