Speaking of Jagermeister, and where that stuff goes when you’re done drinking it brings me to the subject of today’s post: plumbing and crisis.
Two nights ago, my wife and I had a crisis, not not a marital crisis per se, but a plumbing crisis, which for some of us who went to college straight from high school is a crisis of the highest magnitude. Now while my wife may have a different view on her blog here, as I remember (cue: Wayne’s World flashback music):
I was on the phone with my mother, when suddenly I happen to notice that the sump pump in our basement is running an inordinate amount of time for it not having rained all that day. I heard it in the background, but it hadn’t quite registered yet. I comment to my wife: “Doesn’t that seem to be running a lot?”
“It does,” says she.
“I’ll go down and check it out.”
Herself: “No, I’ll go down, so I can see for myself.” (As if I can’t ascertain the situation on my own, being as mechanically inept as I am and all.)
Myself: “Oh, Mom, I gotta go. I’ll have to call you back.”
I get to the basement first and there’s water flowing out of a bendable plastic pipe (I don’t know the technical term; I’m such a mechnaphobe that I admit sheepishly that I Googled plumbing pipe, but couldn’t come up with the right terminology) that’s attached to the sump pump. It’s flowing onto the dirt floor of our basement (mind you, we don’t have a fancy enough place for a finished basement or this really would have been a crisis; imagine a carpeted floor –shudder).
Myself: “Uh, hon, I don’t think this is supposed to be happening.”
Before I know it, my wife, still in her night gown and barefoot, is putting the pipe into this other pipe (PVC pipe, I guess, although what the “P”, the “V” and the “C” stand for is beyond me) that is coming down from the ceiling. Or trying to put it back into this other pipe and not having much success as the pipe comes out of the place to which it’s attached and hits her in the feet. An expletive follows, and after she connects the pipes, I hear water gurgling up in our bathroom on the first floor (the only other floor of our house, not counting an attic that holds rats, bats and squirrels).
Myself: “Uh, hon, I’m going to go check that out.” (Of course, in a much more exasperated way, much more.)
I run up the stairs to the bathroom and find water, or what I assume is water, dirty water, flowing into the tub and into the toilet.
Myself: (No, “uh, hon” this time and definitely with much more exasperation.) “Take that pipe out of there. It’s flowing up into the tub and the toilet.”
Herself: (In a loud voice, to say the least) “Okay, but then what are we to do?”
I say we should call the landlord — and the plumber, whom he has told us to contact in case of an emergency, which I believe, this qualifies.
At one point, I’m on the phone, leaving a message for the plumber, and my wife is in the basement talking to the landlord, and we have this cross-conversation going.
Myself: “I’m calling the plumber.”
Herself: “He’s calling the plumber.”
It’s like a play-by-play for our landlord, which I’m sure he appreciates.
Later, I learn that dirty water wasn’t water, after all, after I saw toilet paper with some other, well, let’s say, detritus, that flowed into a laundry sink in the basement.
The plumber “snaked” (whatever the heck that means) the pipes that night for at least half an hour, which scared the bejesus (is that with a capital B? I don’t know. Is it less sacrilegious, if it’s without the capital? as a church-attending Catholic, I’m going with that view) out of our cat, let me tell you, and now everything (okay, not everything, but at least our sump pump is working again) is right with the world.