It’s been awhile since I last wrote.
I got a job!
I’m now a plumber.
My plumb delightful job came about when I flushed the toilet a few weeks ago and the water swirled, rising higher higher, dangerously close to overflowing.
I took the plunge.
How I plunged.
I plunged the way my former roommate taught me. A spiffy plunge trick that works every time.
Except this time.
The water rose higher.
I called for back-up; back-up came in the guise of a YouTube video that had been watched over two million times. The plumber showed water rising, just like in my toilet. He plunged. Presto. He recommended a special, ridged plunger.
I raced out into the night to find one. I couldn’t find one.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I got home. The water level was lower.
I cheered that my plunging trick had worked. I flushed the toilet and gasped as the water rose and rose. My toilet and I had a few more ups and downs. I persisted in my plunging prowess. I understood the meaning of success, when I heard the happy gurgle of my draining toilet.
A few weeks later, I needed to replenish my toilet paper supply. I found what seemed to be perfect–big, fat rolls that would not only last awhile, but according to the outside packaging were “clog safe.” There was a picture of a plunger with a line through it. With this toilet paper there would be no more clogs.
But the other day, my toilet clogged. Perhaps the package marketing had instead intended a wish, much like when people say, “travel safe.” My clogs would be safe.
Clog safe, everyone.