I do. I’ve realized it today more than any other day so far. We had to call the plumbers out since our pipes backed up last night. RIGHT as I was preparing to hop in the shower before hitting the hay. And it was 358 degrees here yesterday. Okay maybe not those particular three numbers but we were well into the triple digits. I’d held off showering all day since I’d played in the water with the kids off and on. And in that kind of heat, as soon as you shower/hose off, you’re right back at square sweaty all over again. So, being the highly intelligent gal that I am, I’d saved it for last. But that last load of laundry and washing the dinner dishes at 11pm did the pipes in. As the pipes gurgled and bubbled, I tore through the house, turning of the washer, stopping the dishwasher, and pulling toys out of the tub before they got hit with the… well, I don’t want to think about what they were going to get hit with. Please don’t make me go there!
The questionable liquid took quite a while to go down. So, I got to have a delightfully luxurious wipie bath. If you have never treated yourself to one of these you simply must. There’s just nothing like having a days worth of sweat and grime caked to your body and trying to cut through all them there layers with a baby wipe. Ummmmm. If that ain’t a spa treatment somewhere, it should be!
All joking aside, the wipes did do the trick well enough for me to allow myself to slip into bed instead of having to sleep on the floor in my smelliness.
And today, The Plumber came. In his defense, he was a delightful plumber. In fact, we’re becoming ol pals. But every time he pulls the cover off that clean-out, my heart starts to beat fast and my hands start to shake. I just have this feeling that an embarrassing blow to my self-esteem is right around the corner, just waiting for me. I blame this event. How on earth could I NOT?
So today, as my kind plumber pulled back the lid of the clean-out, I started taking deep cleansing breaths, all the while praying that there would be nothing embarrassing lurking down below. There wasn’t. Phew! That part was over with. Then he asked me go give the ol toilet a flush for him so he can see if anything is even getting by. And only because I’m SUCH a strong, confident female, was I able to stick my head inside the house and holler for Tiger to go flush for The Plumber run inside and do his bidding. Alright! I’m chicken! I totally admit it!
As Tiger flushed, I held my breath again, whispering ridiculous pleas that nothing would reach out and grab me. Well, turns out, not much was making it’s way out. So I gladly left Mr. Plumber to do his dirty work while I fled for the house. I tried to keep myself busy and prevent my mind from wandering back to those pipes and what that poor man was pulling out.
After a while, he came to the door and informed me that he’d pulled out a big ball of roots. I tried not to swoon in relief that it was only silly ol roots. I thought my ordeal was over. HA!
How wrong I was.
Mr. Plumber proceeded to ask me to flush some toilet paper down so he could make sure more than just water could pass through (don’t go there! We’re just leaving it as more than water, okay?!). I gaily told him no problem, I’d hop to it right away. I closed the door and stifled a sob. I walked, funeral-procession style, through the house to the necessary bathroom. I lifted the lid and turned to the toilet paper. I held a staring contest with the roll of Charmin as questions filled my paralyzed brain. How much did he want flushed? A girl’s #1 wipe amount? Or someone’s #2s worth? And if the latter, then for one of the kids’ or an adults? Because as much as I train and train, there is still a significant difference in the amount of toilet paper used. And if I went with the largest amount, would he be horrified at the sheer amount of wasted fluffy Charmin? Would I have to explain the hours of child-training I’d put in to defend myself?
But if I went with the smallest amount and it wasn’t enough, would he, horror or all horrors, make me do it again with a larger amount? Sweat broke out across my forehead as the panic set in and I started to loose the starring contest with the Charmin. Mr. Plumber was probably wondering what was taking so long. Oh Crud! What if he thought I was using the toilet first to create an authentic scenario!! That final thought did it, I snatched the end of the roll, spun that bad boy around a few times, tore off a wad, threw it in the toilet bowl and flushed before I allowed myself another heart-stopping thought.
Thankfully, it was enough. And it passed with flying colors. Or whatever. I was just relieved that my minutes of torment were finally over. I was done. I happily paid Mr. Plumber and sent him on his way. And immediately text-ed Hubby to buy more root killer. This time, I promise to make it my bestest friend ever. I will bring it in and flush it (amid another anxiety attack… I always worry it won’t flush properly and back the toilet up. Even though that has never actually happened, the scenario lives forever in my mind) every 2 weeks. I’ll be darned if I let those roots take up residence in my pipes ever again. I ain’t flushin no toilet paper for no one NO MORE!
Yep. I’d say I’ve got some serious issues. And toilets and plumbers are only a smattering my friends.