Where's Popeye When You Need Him?

The human race, hah! That's what they call it, but you gotta wonder where they're all racing to: The finish line?

Every morning I wake up happy, delighted to have survived another night without being murdered in my sleep, what with all those nighttime home invasions in Maine. My euphoria lasts about 20 minutes on average, certainly through that first cup of coffee, until something deflating happens.

Today the good mood ended abruptly with a phone call from my husband from his comfortable First Class seat on one airline or another. He wanted to alert me to the fact that our newly renovated bathroom, the cost of which could support a small Haitian village for a year, was on the verge of disaster as the shower pipes had frozen overnight when the temps dipped below zero, a fact he had discovered at 4 am as he readied for a business trip to Chicago or Philadelphia or Dallas or Milwaukee or Atlanta--not sure which--and most especially to kick my ass into gear about solving the problem since he would soon be aloft, his favorite thing. I heard glasses clinking in the background, punctuated with high-pitched female laughter. "Ooops, breakfast is served," Mitch said, "gotta go." And with that he hung up. (Not really, but it helps the story.)

Couple of things:
1. What am I, a plumber?
2. How come a renovation that cost multiple arms and legs ends up with pipes that get frozen when you live in Maine and that is a distinct possibility each winter?
3. What about the part where the men do the heavy lifting and the women do the laundry? I do my job, in fact I've got a load in right now.