While the transition into contact lenses has been far less laborious and/or gross then originally anticipated, the road to true eyeball happiness is littered with the inevitable speedbump. I mean, the eye still instinctually blinks now and then when you try to stick something in it, OK? Saturday afternoon, as Stephanie and I headed out to a cookout, I showered and popped in the contact for my right eye, then moved to the left side. Tragedy ensued. I missed on the first attempt and couldn’t seem to find the lens. After a detailed examination of the floor, the sink, and everything surrounding the area where the attempt was made, I gave it up. A dead soldier, if you will.

Ten minutes later, resigned to the fact that I’d have to call the eye doctor on Monday, I felt a twinge in my eye in the car on the way to the cookout – and right then and there it became obvious to me that it was in there…..somewhere. My worst fears about contact lenses were realized – the thing was stuck somewhere in my orb. We stopped off at Steph’s cousin’s house in Dorchester, my first true attempt at an expedition to find the lens. No luck. I couldn’t see it anywhere, but yet it still felt like something was in my eye. Even closely exploring the general area of the eye’s irritation brought no closure. Onward to the cookout.

Two trips to the bathroom proved fruitless. I was beginning to think that maybe I did lose the contact and I just had something in my eye, but the theory just didn’t make sense. It had now been close to six hours feeling like something was in my eye. Long story short – eight long hours later, made much easier, I might add, by some phenomenal pulled pork and a stop at Erikson’s Ice Cream, I finally found the damn thing after we got back home. It took a lot of light and lifting my eyelid about as far up and far out as humanly possible, but I saw it, lodged up – WAY up – at the top of my eye. Folded in half.

Eager to get right back on the train and willing myself undaunted, they went right back in my eyes yesterday. Uneventfully, I might add.

It was in that same bathroom where the lens drama occured that I share another weekend story. Saturday evening, just before going to bed, I flushed the toilet and looked in utter horror as water started shooting straight out the right side of the tank (not the bowl, thank god). As with all things related to the toilet, my first instinct was simply to run. It takes only a matter of seconds to realize that isn’t the best choice, really, but it is the option I really wanted to pursue. Knowing I couldn’t do that, I lifted the cover off the tank and found that the culprit was some kind of straw looking thing spewing water that was going nowhere except for my bathroom floor. I was pretty sure I know where the straw-like device should be, but I elected not to experiment, for I believe the thing you should never experiment with is a toilet. That can only lead to true devastation.

When the flushing process was finished, the spew stopped. I cleaned up the floor and was happy to discover it wasn’t flooded or anything, just some minor water which resulted in two pretty damp towels. I went to bed.

Next morning I got up and immeadiately hit the fabulous How Stuff Works website, where my premonition proved to be correct – the straw thingy was to be pointed into something called “the overflow tube.” Easy fix, really, but anytime I can associate the word “I” and “fixed” in the same sentence, it is reason for a momentous celebration. With cake.

That said, I encourage you all to get to know your toilet. It’s probably one of the most important things to know in your house.