A quick story I thought about while getting ready for work this morning…
The light in my bathroom doesn’t work. I live in a old studio apartment on Siesta Key. I guess most people would call this a “bungalo.” Whatever that means. I thought only NYers had bungalos. Anyway, through the years and the salt-saturated air – I don’t know – the wiring is just corroded and needs to be replaced. It’s an easy phone call, but I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me.
A couple of months ago my daughter came to stay with me for a few days. Being five, she needs help sometimes when she goes number two. So on one of those occasions, I went into the bathroom to help her. Low and behold, the light is on.
“The light is on!” I said.
“I know. I turned it on,” she said.
“That light doesn’t work,” I explained.
“Looks like it’s working to me,” she rebutted.
We took care of business and turned the light off. It hasn’t turned on since.
