For some reason I have been beset with issues pertaining to and surrounding the toilet.  The toilet on its own is a beautiful thing.  White, shining porcelain and crystal clear waters disguise the tempests that both necessitate its existence and ensure the temporal nature of its beauty.  If walls could talk, the stories they would tell, and since they don’t—enter Joeprah.  Throwing caution to the wind, here are three tales of toilet trouble—a  “grind house” of sorts per se.

At the Beach

Last weekend, we went on a family getaway to Cape May, NJ.  My wife’s aunt, whom we are very close to, has a place in Cape May and we like to get up there as often as we can during the summer months.  This past weekend we went with our family, my wife’s aunt, my twin brother-in-laws and a displaced Clay Aiken fan that is dating one of the twins.  There is one bathroom.  Here in lies the potential for embarrassing situations.  The bathroom is situated in between a family room addition where we usually hang out, a bedroom, and the hallway.  Another element to the puzzle is my twin brother-in-laws and the displaced Clay Aiken fan girlfriend all stay up late—really late.  

Anyways, during the second night we were there, we had a great dinner--prepared by yours truly, and watched a movie.  After the movie everyone started to turn in.  Throughout the movie I had recognized that I was going to have to “Drop the Kids Off at the Pool” before turning in.  I could also tell this bowel movement had all the pre-rumblings indicating that it may include some sound effects.  Now, I’m not the most shy person in the world, but as I made my way to the bathroom I took notice that sitting in the 3^rd bedroom (no more than 5 feet from where I was about to sit down) were my brother-in-laws and the Clay Aiken Fan GF. 

Being tactful is one thing, being a realist is another.  Like any good general, I had to know when and how to deploy my troops to avoid some costly embarrassment via a thunderous ripple of gas.  *Note: Gas is natural and not something to be offended by—just saying.* Anyways, with some well timed coughs I was able to get through the exercise with my dignity…or so I thought.  Now, for some reason, after a bowel movement I check my work before I flush.  I’m not talking a long thorough examination; I’m talkin’ a once over just to see if they are big enough to mark up the apparatus (another source of bathroom embarrassment) on their way to open waters.  Let’s not get hung up on this, but it’s like a split second thing, I’m not poking them around or anything.  I don’t even think I am self-aware as I do this; it’s just part of the ritual.  Anyways, upon checking  “my work” I noticed no such possible offenders so I felt it was safe to flush, and flush I did. 

On the first try I noticed something still there, “What’s this?  You’re back?  But how?   You’re like an economy sized sedan and there are plenty of spots—WTF?”  I said to myself. 

Flush number two, which was almost immediately following flush number one, resulted in more of the same.  I know, in certain circles, double flushers are events to brag about; this, however, wasn’t one of those circles. 

Flush number three, came after a short wait to make sure the tank had completely refilled, and like a boomerang turd it returned.  It did a little peak-a-boo thing like it was teetering between two worlds.  Maybe it saw what was on the other side and wanted no part of that.  All I knew was that I was starting to feel like Happy Gilmore during that one scene where he’s frustrated about missing putts.  He begins talking to the ball saying things like, “Why don’t you just go home?  Are you too good for your home?! ” This was one resilient turd.  And, it was after the third flush I heard it—laughter.  My already triple flusher was garnering some unwanted attention.   I was determined and more steadfast; no turning back now—flush number four.

Flush number four…could it be?  Yes.  All I had to do now was light a match and be on my merry way, but as soon as I stepped out the door the Clay Aiken girl and the twin dating her were both looking at me--giggling.  In situations when someone can easily mess with you, I find it is best to bust on yourself before they get the chance.  I owned up to it, “Yep, a four flusher.  Good luck beating that.”  I said with arrogance.  It truly was the first four flusher of my career, and one I won’t forget anytime soon.    

Toddlers Clog Toilets

Recently, I have had an epiphany of sorts.  I can no longer deny the fact that has been staring me in the face since this past Christmas—toddlers clog toilets.  My three year old, who potty trained herself during this past Christmas holiday, has been on a torrid pace as of late.  Let me explain.  My toddler is like a toilet assassin.  There aren’t many toilets out there she can’t back-up.  Like a careful, quiet killer she stalks her prey when I am unaware.  She will usually do little more than a brief tinkle, which logic would dictate should only require a scant few squares of tissue.  However, the end result is something immeasurably different.  It’s like she is making her own paper mâché toilet.  When she is through, the bathroom scarcely resembles its former self.

 At first site, a toddler bathroom is the definition of shock and awe.  Laser-guided drips, puddles, and damp hand towels greet you as you survey the damage.  A closer look reveals wet tissues flung haphazardly over the edge of the bowl, perhaps dark streaks on the seat, perhaps not.  You may even see some of the pee has not made it in the bowl at all.  Then you notice…the toilet paper roll is empty, perhaps a strange yellow marking is set around and/or on the toilet itself.  There will be times, when I am in a hurry to use the facilities, and all too often do I go to use our powder room on the first floor only to find it quite incapable of being utilized.  The next step is to try the girls bathroom upstairs.  If history is any teacher, then the chances that both are clogged is about 50/50.  More than a couple of times have I had to retreat all the way back to the master bathroom because a certain someone had dammed up my first two options. 

I have caught her in the act and just after the act of using one to two entire rolls of toilet paper…in one sitting.  She actually did better when she was first potty trained.  She has somehow gotten progressively worse. 

The Professional Plunger

Failure can come in many forms:  missing the hotdog with the relish; losing one sock thus rendering an otherwise favored duo useless; or breaking a tool in an hour of need.  I, of course, am speaking of the latter of those scenarios.  In our house, few things cause me to be galvanized into action faster than a clogged toilet.  I turn into the dad from A Christmas Story looking for the burned out fuse.  I also hate ants, broken cable connections and not having milk.  The following is true. 

As I just finished writing, my toddler is a one-kid-wrecking-crew that will lay waste to a toilet faster than you can say “timeout.”  She is a machine.

8:55 pm   

“Joe!  Baby girl clogged the toilet again!”  Like a fireman receiving a call to action, I double timed it to the scene of the incident.  Armed with a plunger, I went to work.  I could tell from the beginning though that this was no ordinary clogged toilet.  The toilet was unresponsive to my plunger requests.  It was like using a defibrillator on a piece of sheet rock.  Nothing was going to happen.  All I was getting was the sloshing of some decidedly brown toilet water and no clearly of any blockage.  My best intentions were seemingly futile, or like my boy Macbeth says, “(my efforts were merely)… sound and fury; signifying nothing.”   

9:06 pm

A steady sweat has enveloped my capable biceps and rock hard forearms.  The sloshing water has more than once seen fit to invade my cargo shorts.  With each passing plunge with the plunger I become more intensely angered.  Thoughts begin swirling in my mind, “How much toilet paper did she put in there?”  What else could be in there?  Is it the roll?  Did she wipe herself with the empty roll and put that in there too?  Nah.  She’s too smart for that.  Maybe it was the roll?”  No matter what I was saying to myself, I was pissed.  Then the unthinkable happened.  With one final furious plunge—it broke.  The plunger pushed through its rubbery confines and was now a rubber cup on a stick.  The smell in that bathroom was unmentionable.  You would have thought the devil himself took a crap in my toilet.  I had to unclog this toilet; I had to do it tonight. 

9:11 pm

I am now en route to Home Depot.  The nearest one was a good ten minute saunter up the road and I wasn’t sure whether or not they closed at 9:30 or 10:00.   I felt even if I got there at 9:30, I could make a strong case to the store manager or night watchman to let me in.  I was getting a plunger. 

9:22 pm

Hot damn!  Home Depot was open.  Deftly, I slid my ride into the nearest available spot to the door and basically sprinted inside.  I don’t remember much about being inside Home Depot, as per usual, but I do remember coming home with the best plunger money could buy and toilet snake - not to mention a super-sized, commercial grade bottle of Liquid Plumber. 

9:35 pm

Now, on my way home, I start to replay my time in the Home Depot.  I think most of my trips in and out that store are similar.  I go in either in a blind rage or some fugue state and come out with tools I will never use.  They say, “Never go to the grocery store hungry.”   I say, “Never shop at Home Depot angry.”  One time I came out with about $50 of ant spray, baits, caulk and foam insulation because of “the infestation,” only to shell out $300 for an annual contract to kill the bugs anyway.  I wonder if there is an annual contract available for toilet plunging services?

9:45 pm

Back home I take my new plunger, my new toilet snake and my 10 gallon drum of Liquid Plumber to the last place on Earth anyone would want to be.  I really think I am like a fireman.  They run into places people are running from—that’s just what I was doing.  Why exactly was I excited to be back in a place that smelled so bad it gave me the chills?  I don’t rightly know—I just was.  The snake was messy and hard to use.  All the soggy disgusting toilet paper and other floating things made the water difficult to navigate.  For a little toddler, I have to give it to her—that girl can drop a deuce.   The snake managed to get on my last nerve when more toilet water landed on my cargo shorts.  It was time to try out the new plunger.

9:52 pm

The new plunger starts off a little harder to use.  It is bigger and bulkier, but the potential is certainly there for some serious plunging.  It’s analogous to making the jump from one of the old mowers that work on push power and sharp blades to the new riding ones.  There will always be a place for the old ones—a museum perhaps for outdated plungers, just not in my house. 

9:54 pm

I nickname my new plunger “the bee” due to its yellow and black markings.  I am hitting my groove now with the new plunger. I start thinking about putting a custom grip on it and then—paydirt.  The lovely sound of a toilet that has just been unclogged, it is part thank you (from the toilet) part applause (also from the toilet).  Cradling my new plunger, I whisper "good job" as I place it inside its home depot bag sheath until our next adventure. Sleep well, my prince.

My kids think I’m a hero.  It’s no big deal really.  Just something dads do.  When people ask me, “How did you get so good at plunging?”  I always tell them the same thing, “I owe most of my success to my kids.”  I think I was always this good, but having kids really unleashed my plunging potential for the world to see.

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