And plumbing is one of them. Last week we had an emergency of the plumbing kind. A close encounter of the poop kind.
Spielberg quietly beckoned me to the hallway, "Mom, uh come here please."
"What is it?"
"Just come here."
I accompanied him in to the hall bath. And then I also freaked out. The toilet looked-well there is no other way to describe it-like the scene of a nuclear accident. A nuclear accident involving corn. I know! Sorry for that visual.
It was also mostly empty. So like a complete plumbing ignoramus, I flushed it thinking that the water would just rinse the bowl and presto! back to normal.
Imagine my surprise when the level kept rising and rising. "Quick, bring me the plunger!!!"
"Where is it?" my son yelled. Mr. O had just that weekend rearranged things and the plunger was MIA.
"Never mind that, bring me a bowl, a large one!" In my panic, I'd forgotten that all I needed to do was shut off the water valve under the tank to stem the tide. The veritable Brown Tide.
Finally, both a large bowl and the plunger were found, and I set to work playing Mrs. Plumber O.
Now this is where I tell you that Murphy's Law is true. If you are wearing one of your favorite dresses and the need to administer some toilet CPR arises, CHANGE out of that dress. I'm just sayin'.
By this time the water was overflowing. Did I mention I was also barefoot? Some more colorful vocabulary escaped my lips, and I began to plunge.
Holy Crap (pun intended)! That did not help things. Poo water splashed down the front of my dress and in the direction of my face, swears dripped out of my mouth. Funny thing, toilets do not respond to four letter words like you might think. I began dipping the very large bowl (which has since been cloroxed to death) into the muck to lower the water level and decrease the splash fallout.
Ha. The water continued to rise. In a panic, I called Mr. O. In a panic, I may have yelled at him and demanded he come rescue me. I'm awful, I know. The water, the water was still rising and puddling and pooling across the floor (which has since also been cloroxed to death).
He reminded me how to shut the flow of water off. I did so, but the water continued to make a "run" for it, "Towels! Towels! Please bring me some towels!"
I tell you we were like a bunch of chickens running around with our heads cut off. Except that I was rooted to my spot by a lake of rapidly spreading stench water.
I mopped up the water with the towels and began cloroxing away. This plumbing emergency was way beyond me and my limited cuss library. Mr. O graciously bailed us out. And with nary a cuss, if you're wondering. He's cool like that.
A couple days later Ellie began announcing to me how many squares of tissue she was using every time she used the bathroom. Meanwhile, the toilet kept calling in sick and tossing its cookies (not a pretty picture).
Finally she confessed to me that it was her fault the works had gotten clogged up. I reassured her that I still loved her, and she promised to never use more than 4 or 5 squares per wipe and that she'd call for help if she needed more than that to take care of things.
We eventually had to call a family friend who happens to be a plumber and he came over and snaked out the pipes. I've never been so grateful for a plumber. And Clorox.
How are you under pressure? Swears or no?