The Plumbing Incident: More of the Not Feeling Fresh

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So Terry gets on the horn with this plumber guy we've worked with in the past, although only for small jobs like replacing the washers in the shower faucet or fixing the leak with the kitchen sink. Nothing major like the Devil breaching our household. And the plumber guy is asking things like "well, it could be tree roots, do you have a lot of trees?" Why yes, we do. Lots of trees. Thank you for asking.

"Probly oughta snake it then."

Okay, I have porno containing dialogue such as that, but I digress. Fine. This plumber guy doesn't actually do the work himself, he has a network of mysterious contacts that he just "sends out." Great. Start with the sending. Of course, this means that one of us must actually be home so that the exorcism can be performed properly. Which means me.

I'm the one that can work from home, if needed. Terry cannot do this. In fact, Terry is a little suspect about this whole "work from home" concept. He pretends to be supportive and all that, but I know in his heart he considers "working from home" to be the same as "not working". I have tried to convince him otherwise, but it's clear from our conversations that I have not succeeded.

Home phone rings at 5 pm. It's him. I put the conference call on hold, the call with 7 directors at my "anonymous for fear of losing my job" un-named company.

Terry: "I'm on my way home. Are you at the house or in the office?"

An innocuous-seeming question, but I'm already clenched. The subtle hint is coming, wherein I've had a play-day while he's actually furthered mankind in some way.

Brian: "I'm at the house. Got paged before I could even get out of the house and I've been on conference calls ever since."

T: "Oh. Okay. Did you call your mother about that surgery thing?"

B: "Um, no. I've been on conference calls, all day."

T: "Okay. What's for dinner?"

B: "Haven't really thought about it. Conference calls. All day."

T: "Okay. Did you find the gas bill so I can call about the discrepancy?"

B: "Been a little busy. Calls."

T: "Okay. Hey, this is Big Trash week, did you move the-"

B: "I HAVE BEEN ON GD CONFERENCE CALLS SINCE 7AM THIS MORNING!"

And then we don't speak for two days.

But I digress again, which is apparently the theme of this post. Anyway, it's up to me to work from home and wait for the mysterious plumbing pod people to make an appearance.

So I wait. And wait. And wait some more. Three days go by before there's a knock on the door. I open said door to find two overly-exhuberant, supposed plumbing people. They are really excited to be here. I think they might even break into song. This is almost fun! Until they ask a question which completely mystifies me:

"Where is your trap?"

My trap? I have no idea what that is, let alone where it might be. I say something profound like "Uhh...." and they know they have me, I am down for the count. It's easy pickins from this point forward. I am a complete waterworks victim, ass to the wind.

So the lead singing plumber says, "Well, we'll just go have a look around." And off they go, to look for this trap thing, which, apparently, is somewhere outside, since they didn't come INSIDE. I close the door, convinced that my manliness has been compromised in some way. Just not sure how, why or where.

Two hours later, another knock. They can't find the trap. Maybe there isn't one. They will have to go through the toilets. Fine. I just want to flush without fear, I don't care what you have to do.

So now begins the tromping through the house with heavy machinery. The guest bathroom toilet won't do, not enough elbow room. So they focus on the master bath. Terrific. Strange men are in my bedroom, and not in a good way. And there's already a layer of mud on the previously pristine wood floors, because "wiping your feet" is apparently not part of the "Plumber's Devotional Credo". I hate them already. There will be no more singing.

So, master bath toilet is ripped up and cast aside. But hey, after hours of a horrid grinding noise, there's some kind of complication and this isn't going to work. So it's back to the guest bath, (wait, I thought this bath wouldn't work, did I suffer a head injury at some point in the last few hours?) and that toilet is manhandled into the bathtub. More grinding. And more complications. Something is just not right. Obviously, Satan has claimed our plumbing as his current lair. And the bitch ain't gonna move anytime soon.

It's getting late. The now-no-longer-singing plumbing duo temporarily re-installs the master bath toilet, cautioning that we can't get too carried away cause "it's loose". Okay, shouldn't be a problem. Did you think we were gonna have some type of aerobic sex in here, what with the lovely smell from the sewer, and the MUD everywhere? Define "carried away". Please.

And then the plumbers drive off into the night, promising to return in the morning...

Hate them. Seriously.

But imagine my surprise when, lo and behold, they DO show up in the morning. Okay, LATE morning, almost lunch, but still. It took them three days to get here the first time, I really wasn't expecting to see them again until the end of the Obama Adminstration. And they are super-pumped, they claim to have a fancier machine that will work better than the grinding but ultimately pointless machine from yesterday. Yay. But once they get started, the grinding noise is eactly the same, the sitting around and waiting is the same, the boredom and hatred of my life is the same.

And they grind for hours, once again. I am fully convinced that at any moment Chinese people will come spilling out of the bathroom, jabbering in a foreign tongue, but the message will be very clear that they are not happy about being awakened in the middle of the night.

Then suddenly the grinding stops. The lead singer summons me from my clenched and puckered position on the ceiling. He thinks they've cleared the demon out. Things look good. Just one small problem. (Of course there's a problem, how could it be MY life if there wasn't a problem.) He very briefly waves some hose-looking device in front of me, then just as quickly hides it behind his back. There was a small incident and this device has been broken. (Did the Chinese do it? I bet they did.) They will have to go buy a replacement and return.

And off they go. I swear I hear them laughing. And maybe singing just a little.

Hours later, after Terry has arrived home from his "real job" ("So what did they do? I have no idea. But you were here the whole time. I have no idea. Didn't you ask them? I have no idea, something broke."), the barbershop duo returns. They are in the house roughly 37 seconds, replacing the mystery part, and then racing out the door like the hounds of hell are nipping.

This can't be good. They said it was fixed, but why the racing off?

Terry: "Did you flush the toilet? To see if it worked?"

Brian: "Um, dude, you were sitting here, too. Did YOU flush the toilet?"

This gets nowhere fast. He's thinking it's all about me being the one officially in charge of the home invasion. I'm thinking it's all about me not being able to have a bowel movement for the last five days.

I sigh. Then approach the guest bath toilet and flush. It overflows.

The anguished wail coming from my lips destroys all flora, fauna and fine china in the entire neighborhood. Three people die.


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