While strolling through my Facebook news feed today (and not stalking everyone I know, I don't do that, come on!) I stumbled across this post on McSweeney's: Please Read. It's hilarious.
Now, I consider myself a strong, independent woman. I can sit at a bar by myself and order my own drinks (and then dump them on Post Gender Normative Men). I can take care of myself. But there have certainly been times in my life when I'm reduced to a sobbing, emotional little girl (like during every episode of Glee Season 2), or when I have NO idea what I'm doing and need to be saved by a big strong human (as Post Gender Normative Man says).
Case in point, back in February, the pipe under our bathroom sink burst, while I was home alone. It was a Saturday and Kurt was at work, it being tax season and all. I was putting on mascara to walk up to the bakery for my morning latte (yes, I put on mascara to go to the bakery, to go anywhere really. I can probably count the number of times on my right hand that I have left the house without mascara, but I digress), when I heard a loud bang and whooshing sound. The sound was akin to the sound of a waterfall if the waterfall was under a sink. I opened the door to the cabinet under the bathroom sink and saw a terrible sight: one of pipes had burst and water was spraying (powerfully I might add) EVERYWHERE. My first instinct was to turn off the water by the valve under the sink (I told you, I know how to take care of myself), but the water was BURNING hot. At this point, I was still thinking rather clearly, so I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand so I wouldn't burn myself, and felt around for the valve. And felt nothing. There was no valve. Incredulously, I searched, while getting soaked and cursing the universe for letting this happen while I was home alone. Let's just say, no valve = Amy panicking. I ran to the closet to grab towels, then thought better of it and ran to my phone instead to call the landlord (actually I ran back and forth a few times yelling a few choice words in an utter state of panic before ultimately deciding to call the landlord). No answer, so I hung up without leaving a message. I threw the phone on the couch and ran to the linen closet to grab towels to soak up the water that was still POURING out of the pipe and onto the bathroom floor. Luckily, it hadn't yet reached the 150 year old hard wood floors. I ran back to my phone to call Kurt. Also no answer. Seriously? NO ONE?? I cursed a little more and ran to knock on our neighbor's door. No answer. Then I did what any girl does when she's in trouble and doesn't know what to do. I called my dad. His advice was to turn the water off by the valve under the sink. THANKS Dad! I hadn't thought of that one! My voice now high and trembling from panic, I told him there wasn't one. "Check the basement for a shut off valve." YES! The basement! (Let me preface this by saying our basement is technically a root cellar, but I'd go as far as saying it's a cave, filled with spiders and sprickets and I had vowed NEVER to go down there unless UTTERLY necessary). I opened the basement door, the two naked lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling were both out. Perfect timing. I grabbed a flashlight, braced myself and ran down the basement steps. Four inches of water covered the floor (our sump pump only works about a quarter of the time). I told my dad (or rather screamed IT'S FLOODED! WHAT DO I DO??). He told me to call the police.
Now, when something like this happens, do you sit at your computer and calmly look up the number for the police station since you don't have one of those magnets with emergency numbers on your refrigerator because they're too tacky to even consider, or do you call 911? I made the choice to call 911. I KNOW this was not an emergency, but I didn't know what else to do! Water was STILL pouring out of the pipe and I was running out of options. I told the operator what was going on, gave my name and address and he assured me an officer would be over soon. I think the trembling in my voice let him know I was on the verge of tears, so thankfully, he didn't yell at me for calling on our police force for a broken pipe, when they have so many better things to be doing, like pulling over speeders and directing traffic (no offense to policeman everywhere, that's actually what they do in my town. The town is VERY quiet, and about a mile long, not too much crime to fight).
During this time, Kurt called me back. He told me to turn off the water using the valve under the sink. As calmly as I could (which was not at all) I told him there wasn't a valve under the sink. He promised to call the landlord until he answered and said he was on his way home. About 30 seconds (each of which felt like a whole minute while I ran around the house still panicking and then decided it would probably be a good idea to throw on a sweatshirt since I hadn't yet put on a bra and the policeman would most likely be male, since I had never seen a female police officer in our town) later, a police car pulled up, and out stepped...the same policeman who had just pulled me over for talking on my cell phone days earlier (but had very nicely let me go with a "Ok, be careful!"). Told you it was a small town. I couldn't wait for him to walk in so I ran to the porch to meet him (as if this would make him run in any faster) and I explained the situation while he followed me into the house at a run. "There's a valve under the sink." he said on his way to the bathroom. It seriously took all my strength not to throw something at him. "No there's not! I checked!" I yelled instead. Did everyone really think I was THAT clueless? He asked if we had access to the basement. We did. I told him it was flooded AND that the lights had burned out, but we walked down the steps anyway. He spotted a pipe with a red valve and we took a guess that that was what we needed to shut off. So this young, small-town policeman, went down into our basement, in 4 inches of freezing water (it was February, remember), risking hypothermia and electrocution, and shut off the water to the house. I ran upstairs to check if it had worked. It had. The poor guy came walking back up the steps, his nice shiny shoes ruined and his feet wet. I handed him a towel and apologized profusely for calling 911 and making him ruin his shoes at what was presumably the beginning of his shift. "It's ok." he said, "it's a small town. We do everything."
He left and within the next 2 minutes, my dad arrived, and then Kurt. I explained what had happened. "He was so nice!" I said. Kurt's response? "Of course he was nice! You're a cute girl and were in trouble." I told him the officer was nice in general, it didn't matter that I was girl. "Did you mention you weren't single?" YES. I responded, making my point that he was just a nice cop, doing a nice thing for a stranger. Truth be told, I hadn't mentioned "my fiance" until he had come back up the steps from saving me, just in case. Either way, I was just happy he wasn't a Post Gender Normative Man, dead set against saving a girl in distress.
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