Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
My household recently experienced what can only be described as a disaster of biblical proportions.
After many years living a pampered life, dining on exotic Scrubbing Bubbles and Lysol, the master bathroom toilet delivered its resignation tornado-style, giving zero warning. Not even two-weeks’ notice.
When your entire plumbing arsenal consists of a $7 plunger and only a vague recollection of where the shut-off valve is, watching the murky water creep steadily toward the rim is terrifying. It might cause a frantic female to run around in circles, swinging the virgin plunger like a baseball bat. Good thing we don’t know anybody like that.
The water slowed to a halt just as it tickled the rim. My prayers answered, I cautiously removed the tank lid to investigate this perilous abyss. Let’s see, we’ve got a chain anchored by a plug and a fat, black rubber thing attached to a stick. Also water. What am I looking for, again?
When things go wrong, I try to avoid them. Forever, if possible. Luckily, my house has other bathrooms, plus a bonus rest stop right next to me on the 15th hole, which could be my emergency outhouse. All those spare potties should buy YouTube enough time to turn me into a master plumber.
According to the internet, the problem was a clog. Obviously, this would require a new and improved plunger.
“Which one works best?” I asked, grabbing the hardware guy by the vest before he could flee.
“They’re plungers,” he shrugged. “They’re all the same.”
He was right. Nothing but clones, except for the purple accordion model hiding in the back. “Pick me,” the pretty plunger whispered. “You won’t be sorry.”
Who could refuse? So I named her Penelope and we went off to attack the clog. Damn the instructions, full speed ahead. In hindsight, the warning about establishing a tight seal before proceeding would have made good reading. Otherwise, the toilet responds like a whirling blender without a lid. And we’re not talking smoothies here.
After 10 seconds of ferocious plunging—followed by two hours of scrubbing with no help from Penelope—the bathroom recovered, but the clog hadn’t budged. Time for better weapons.
I upgraded to a $12 auger, which is pretty much a fishing pole for potties. (The hardware guy promised I wouldn’t need a raincoat and tarp this time.) Soon, Augie and I were snaking and reeling like Brody and Quint fighting the great white in Jaws. It was the largest man-eating clog ever seen in those waters.
Then came the moment of truth—when you flush and pray the water will stop rising before flood stage. Guess what? It did.
I retired Penelope and bought some ugly overalls so the next clog will take me seriously. Just in case there’s a sequel.
Jan A. Igoe saves money by doing dangerous home repairs herself. She also moonlights as a plumber and offers a generous discount to readers. Book now at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop. Let her know if you’re selling a fighting chair.