It all started with the bus in my sink.
It just seemed like a normal day. Armed with a can of shaving cream and my razor, I begin my regular morning routine. Opening the cabinet, I extract the orange can of shaving cream and my semi-sharp razor and place them on the edge of the sink. My face stares back at me when I close the cabinet. But when I go to put the plug in, everything changes. There is the shiny back end of a custom tour bus sticking out of the drain. Odd. But easily removed. I reach down and extract the toy, setting it on top of the lowered toilet seat. Now, back to the task. I grasp the long stemmed plug inserting it into the drain, only to find that it won’t fit. Peering into it, I can see a Winnebago lodged farther down. I root about the cabinet and come up victorious: tweezers. Fumbling about for a few moments I clear the obstacle. Now the plug fits perfectly.
My shave goes nicely. The razor glides smoothly across my skin, periodically dipping to swish in the pooled water of the sink. Creamy foam islands float across the surface of the darkening liquid. It takes no time at all. I reach in, grasp the plug and pull it out. Now it’s time for my shower. But then I notice that there is still a stagnant pool remaining in the sink. This is not funny!
Eventually, I resort to the wrench. The pipes come apart to reveal that two brushes (of the paint and tooth varieties) had preceded the camper down the drain. I extricate those and seal everything back up. But the next day is a continuation.
I walk into the bathroom only to feel that most horrible of sensations: soggy socks! This feeling drives me nuts. I look under the sink, but the pipes are dry. It’s the commode. I vaguely wonder if there is a small bulldozer or a tank in the toilet. Now I arm myself with a plunger and mop instead of the tweezers and wrench. Again, I gain victory. Everything returns to normal.
Until the next morning.
I survive my morning ritual and head off to work. I arrive, grab my cup and go to the bathroom. It’s 6:30 am. I run the tap to get some cold water, oblivious to the paper towel stuffed down the sink. It takes me a few minutes to realize I’m standing in a swamp. Uggh.
Later that night, as I head to bed, I once again find myself with wet feet. The problem is a roll of toilet paper functioning as beaver dam in the toilet. I really start to wonder what it is with me and plumbing.
There are old adages about “water under the bridge,” “spilt milk,” and “letting sleeping dogs lie”. But I wonder if there should be a new one, a saying about failure to deal with problems in our lives:
If you leave the bus in your sink, you’ll get soggy socks.