SNAFUBAR

There are acronyms in life that folks toss around like confetti at a small-town parade. Some are polite, like NASA and the PTA.

Others get stitched together with a little more military salt and pepper. One of those is “SNAFU,” which means “Situation Normal, All Fouled Up.” Then there’s its big, ugly cousin, “FUBAR,” which politely translates to “Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition.”

Now, I have recently coined a brand-new hybrid: SNAFUBAR. It’s what happens when something starts as a run-of-the-mill everyday problem, then snowballs into such a grand mess you wonder if the Almighty Himself might lean down from Heaven, scratch His beard, and say, “Well, I didn’t see that coming.”

Case in point–my water heater.

One morning, I woke up, shuffled out to the kitchen for coffee, and discovered Mary standing in the garage with that particular expression that lets a man know life is about to get interesting. She didn’t say a word—just pointed down.

That’s when I noticed the puddle of water creeping across the floor like it was sneaking up on me.

“Looks like it’s leaking,” I said, which was about as sharp as announcing, “That’s rain,” in the middle of a thunderstorm.

By the time I fetched the mop, turned off the valve, and hauled out towels, the garage floor looked like a kiddie pool after a toddler birthday party. And that was just the “SNAFU” stage. The “BAR” part came later.

See, I figured I’d save some money and swap out that water heater myself. I mean, how hard could it be?

Two pipes, some wires, and a lot of grunting. So I disconnected everything, dragged the old beast out the door, and drove down to the hardware store.

It is where the “FUBAR” came in.

The fella at the store informed me that my old tank was “obsolete.” Not “out of date,” mind you. “Obsolete.”

That word hits harder than a frying pan to the forehead. He explained that the new water heaters were taller, heavier, and came with more “bells and whistles” than the cockpit of a space shuttle.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “all you need to do is re-plumb the intake, re-thread the outlet, update the venting, and possibly upgrade your breaker box.”

I looked at him the way a farmer looks at a calf that just kicked him.

Back home, I stood there staring at the shiny new tank as if it were an alien lifeform. I made a few adjustments with my trusty pipe wrench, muttered some colorful language under my breath, and got everything “sorta” connected. Then I flipped the breaker and opened the valve.

It’s when my homemade plumbing arrangement gave way, shooting water across the room like a fire hydrant in July. Buddy still hasn’t forgiven me.

Mary peeked around the corner, saw me soaked head to toe, and wisely chose not to comment. She just handed me a towel and the phone book.

The professional plumber showed up the next morning, took one look at my setup, and chuckled in that kind, fatherly way people do when they realize you’ve done your best but still managed to invent a brand-new disaster. He fixed it in about thirty minutes flat, then gave me the bill, which cost about the same as a used pickup truck in 1978.

So there you have it: SNAFUBAR. Situation Normal, All Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition.

Now, some folks would say the moral of the story is, “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

But I prefer a different lesson–sometimes life’s biggest messes make the best stories. And if you can laugh about it later—preferably while sitting in a warm bath provided by a properly installed water heater—then maybe the whole thing wasn’t such a disaster after all.

Besides, I got a new acronym out of it, and you can’t put a price on that.