Only pissy as long as I think recovery is possible

Casa WmWms’s water pressure regulator failed last weekend, as in nothing happened when we turned on a faucet.  I detected the problem about 10 in the morning last Saturday, and Mr. Rooter had us up again by about 4, for $336.

(I watched him closely, and I also watched the water department employee ahead of him closely, and I’m pretty sure I can do the work if the same failure occurs again.)

Lea complimented me on my demeanor.  I wasn’t stomping around, and I wasn’t cussing.  I was just dealing.  See, here’s the thing.  The tantrum is only indicated while the possibility of recovery still exists.  Once you’re way screwed—and no water definitely qualifies as way screwed—it’s a lot easier to let it go.

One morning when Nathan was a baby, Aaron wasn’t yet born, and Lea was still working as a software analyst, she came and got me out of bed about 5:30 because she had a flat tire.  (When we both had jobs, we staggered our schedules as much as possible to minimize the amount of time Nathan was in day care.  She had the early shift.)  Same story that time; I just got up and changed it.  There is no ambiguity.  The answer is obvious.  Best be about implementing the obvious answer.  That’s it.

It’s only in that nether zone, where a quick and effective remedy might reside, that the screamed obscenities and punched walls and what-not might occur.  After the obvious solution (or the futility of further unassisted action) presents, and the possibility of self-sufficient recovery is truly remote, the calmness rules.

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