I decide to replace my ball-cock assembly. Actually, I haven't had a ball-cock assembly in years. I just wanted to say ball-cock assembly. Nobody has them anymore unless they have an antique toilet, the kind that used to flush with authority. My tank has had an air-pressure device since the last repair. My partner is complaining that the perpetual flushing commode keeps her awake at night. I go to the hardware store to buy two filler valve and flapper assemblies, figuring the guest toilet is about to die soon, because it was last repaired at the same time as the master toilet and lime is lime. It is a daylong job, because I interpret the instructions liberally and find subtle nuances in them with each re-reading. I use the old overflow pipe, because I don't feel lucky. Replacing that will take me right down into the deepest darkest recesses of the task. I am still skittish since the time I tried to clear the sink drain with a coat hanger. We had to call a plumber to undo my handiwork. Who knew it would be so easy to poke a hole in an old metal trap that was eaten away by lime. But, miracle of miracles, I repair it without a hitch. Now I have a monster flusher. I call Anne, "Come here and flush the toilet." She thinks it strange, but she has lived with me too long to be surprised. "Kashoom, Swash, Gargle, Gurgle!" and the bowl clears in a swirling maelstrom and fills back up with a nice deep throaty baritone moan. I am so proud, I want to go out into the street and invite everyone who passes to come into the house and witness this testament to my manhood.