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It started out as a lazy Sunday morning. I lay in bed enjoying the glorious silence and mentally planning my day; a leisurely breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and juice, then I'd read the extra large weekend edition of the newspaper, maybe even clipping some coupons. I'd do a few, light household chores, let breakfast settle and then head to the gym; get my workout out of the way so I could come home and blissfully get absolutely nothing done. Ah...this is what every day should be like.
I pulled the covers up to my neck, expecting to doze a little more when my ever filling bladder made its presence known; first with small nudges, then more insistent jabs. "OK!", I say to it. "I'm getting up..." Reluctantly I shoved my feet into my threadbare, fuzzy slipper and padded my way to the bathroom. Hmm...that's a little weird. Is the water level in the toilet usually up that high? In hindsight, I probably should have stopped right there to contemplate my next action, but hindsight has had lasik. I, in my myopic present, flushed, then stood horrified as the water began to rise and then rise some more, stopping (thank you, Lord) at the very top of the rim.
The thought, Now's one of those times I wish I had a boyfriend flashed momentarily through my mind and I shooed it away as if it were a mangy stray cat. I needed one of those things...long wooden handle, rubber thingy on the end. I saw one somewhere. Yes! The previous owner had left an odd assortment of unwanted things in the storage shed and I remembered seeing one of those things in there. I headed out through the bathroom door, glancing back one last time at the water, threatening to breach it's porcelain levee. I threw on my coat over my flannel p.j.'s, ran out the backdoor to the storage shed and began rummaging through its contents. There, between a broken weed-wacker and a blue bowling ball engraved with the name, Jorge, I found my prize. My elation was cut short when I realized how dirty it was. I couldn't touch that thing with my bare, ungloved hands! Back into the house I went for my trusty, latex gloves.
Ten minutes of searching yielded one missing toe-sock, two rotten potatoes (who knew they could stink that much?), a credit card bill I thought I had paid and a package of stale Easter peeps, but no gloves. Being resourceful, I snatched a handful of paper towels, planning to use them as a barrier between my hands and the germy handle of the name-now-remembered, plunger. Back to the shed, I moved the weed-wacker out of the way while grabbing the plunger with my paper-toweled hand and somehow the blue bowling ball engraved with the name Jorge ran over my right pinkie-toe. Ignoring the pain in my toe and the urge to cuss, I limped back into the house, happy that I was at least, now armed.
Standing in front of the toilet, plunger in hand, I realize I'm holding my breath. I feel my carefree day slipping further and further away. There's only one thing to do...take the plunge! I close my eyes and shove the plunger straight down into the murky depths. The term, "displacement" surfaced somewhere from the recesses of my mind, but unfortunately a few seconds too late as I heard a sick, sloshing sound and felt liquid seep through my slippers. I open my eyes in time to see the paper towels sinking into the toilet bowl.
There was only one thing to do. I took a long, hot, disinfecting shower.
An hour later, washed, dried and in clean clothes, I am sitting on my couch, googling, "How to unclog a toilet". I had the right idea about the plunger, but I was discouraged to learn that I would have to bail the excess...uhmm...water, out of the bowl in order to optimize the plunging experience. But what to dip with? I had no plastic cups. Wait! I still had no gloves.
Another hour later, I have returned from the store with a package of twelve, disposable latex gloves. I had forgotten to buy a package of disposable cups, so I riffled through my kitchen cabinets for something, anything to bail with. Whatever I use will, of course have to be discarded afterward. I couldn't bear to sacrifice any of my Tupperware or china cups, but finally found a package of Styrofoam bowls. Those would have to do.
Gloves were finally donned after tearing holes in several. I didn't totally trust the gloves to adequately protect my hands so the plan was to avoid all contact with the liquid in the toilet. Next problem: where to put the discarded liquid? Another kitchen search for a bucket-like container reveals nothing. I remembered the large plastic chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream container in the freezer. It would be perfect. It even had a handle. I could not, in all good conscience, throw out perfectly good ice cream, so I settled onto the couch to finish it off.
Another hour later, I am kneeling in front of the porcelain beast, trying to will myself to make that first scoop. I calculated how much time I had left before I had to start preparations for the rapidly approaching work week. I held the ice cream container in one hand and a Styrofoam bowl by the very edge, in the other. Yes...one successful scoop! I carry the bowl the short distance to my improvised bucket and it cracks in half, liquid pouring over my gloved hand.
There was only one thing to do. I poured bleach onto my gloved hands, tossed the gloves into the trash and took a long, hot, disinfecting shower.
Another hour later, clean, dry and wearing my last pair of clean sweat-pants, I wrestled into the last clean pair of gloves, put two Styrofoam bowls together for extra strength and bailed out as much of the swill as I could, but how to get that last little remaining amount?
Fifteen minutes later I had again assumed my offensive position, (glove-less since I had to discard the last pair so I could further search the kitchen and the shed for a suitable tool), this time outfitted with a turkey baster, thinking one good squeeze should do it. Unfortunately, the baster came apart mid-squeeze and fell into the toilet. I left it there.
There was only one thing to do. I poured bleach onto my bare hands and took a long, hot, disinfecting shower.
I used the extra bathroom for the remainder of the weekend. The following morning, I googled for and called a plumber. I don't know how I'll explain the turkey baster.
I can't wait to get back to work. If my co-workers ask why I am limping, I'll say I hurt myself bowling.
I think I'll sign up to work overtime next weekend. I don't think I can take any more relaxation.
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