We Did Not Break Up With Our Plumber

My phone rang yesterday. It was our plumber, Erik, so I answered it. I have been known to screen calls from my closest relatives (not you Mom), but when the plumber calls, I answer. Erik sounded slightly panicked.

"Hey Erik! How are you!"
"I was ok until 2 seconds ago. Who's Frank Bernie?"

Building permits are a matter of public record, and in the internet age that sometimes actually means something. According to the DOB, Erik tells me, Frank Bernie of King's County Plumbing was our plumber. Now, that's gotta be something like Catherine Zeta Jones waking up one morning and reading an article in People that says she's Jack Black's girlfriend. With a picture of them holding hands. Except she doesn't remember.

Did Katherine and I get really trashed one night and cheat on our plumber?

I assured Erik that if we were going to break up with him, we'd do it in person and not just change our Facebook status. He seemed reassured. But it was an unsettling moment. You don't want your plumber mad at you. Think of the mess he could make.

We resolved to buy the best copper fittings for his work, and make sure the wax seal for the toilet was cedar-scented. We might send him a bouquet of Kitz valves on threaded rod, with a spray of tank fill assemblies. We think it's the right thing to do.