Thanksgiving Day at the beach-house-not-on-the-beach, we invited one of the neighborhood widows over for dinner after her plans to be with her own family fell through. I can prepare Thanksgiving dinners in my sleep, so it wasn’t the dinner that got me. It was the trip to the bathroom before the dinner. My chronic constipation problem suddenly resolved itself.
I pushed the toilet handle. It made the flush noise, but there was no accompanying swoosh, not even a little one. What happened was not unlike what one would expect to occur if a tennis ball was caught in a vacuum cleaner hose: absolutely nothing.
I hate that toilet. We have had plumbers and city crews out on several occasions. They have reamed our pipes as far as their snakes would unroll. They have dug from the street corner to the end of the cul-de-sac. They have suggested cutting down the river birch tree in the front yard. But they have not solved the mystery of why the powder room toilet clogs.
Nobody better tell them it only clogs with me.
I swear, I just couldn’t handle it this time. I can’t even count the times that freakin’ toilet has pooped out on me (pardon the pun.) We have an array of toilet plungers and I know how to use them.
Just not that day. Not after spending hours in the kitchen trying to make things perfect. The situation was just too… you know, crappy, for words.
I burst into tears. I yelled. “WE NEED A NEW TOILET!!! I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANY MORE!!!”
Dearly Beloved reluctantly answered my wails. There was a momentary standoff. I ran through the marriage vows in my head… richer, poorer, sickness, health. It didn’t exactly say it, but that implies some sh–ty times doesn’t it? This was one of them.
Let’s just say that he shows a lot more grace about following Miss Piggy on her walks with a bag in hand.
Finally, as my hysteria was not subsiding, he hesitantly peeked into the powder room. “Let me get my axe,“ he told me.
A few minutes later, he walked through the sunroom, wanting to know if I had seen the wedge that he used to keep for splitting logs.
He’s a real comedian, that one.
Nevertheless, he made the toilet flush without having to call in a street full of sewer trucks. A miracle! The day was suddenly brighter. There was probably a rainbow in the toilet water.
Now if I could pause here and say a few words in my defense, I would like to say that I have had BM’s in dozens… maybe hundreds… of toilets without collateral damage. I am sure the toilet is defective, not my bowel habits. Surely this was simply a matter of odds.
Nevertheless, I received a pep talk from the funny Tidy Bowl Man about needing to get more exercise, drink more water, eat more fruit, etc.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Even though we are back at home in Charlotte and away from the torturing toilet, I have to admit that I have been somewhat unnerved by the recent sightings of those Water & Sewer trucks working on our street. I think I know how the ancient mariner must have felt as he watched that albatross flapping behind his ship day after day.
Three weeks of lying around while nursing The Crud has not been good for my … um… regularity. To borrow a phrase from a Cialis commercial… When the moment arises… I will be on pins and needles. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Literally, I will be on the bathroom throne.
I’m hoping for a royal flush.