I like to say my life is like a sitcom, however, recently it seems my life has been just.plain.normal. Nothing too funny or out of the ordinary, which is nice sometimes. Until Thanksgiving week.
I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones already wreaking havoc, or the unlimited bagels we had that week, but let’s just say I was having some “trouble” ::cough, cough:: using the bathroom. Yet another thing I didn’t miss about being pregnant. When I finally succeeded, I was relieved, excited, and quite frankly, in some pain. But, I had succeeded, and luckily it was timed perfectly with my shower, because seriously, being in a house with 23 other adults? Difficult to hide that you’re in one of the only bathrooms for longer than the usual pee time.
Then came flushing. Oh no. It….didn’t….work. ::Looks right::looks left:: NO plunger. I searched the cabinets, I searched behind the toilet, I searched again. Nothing. One more flush. Nope. Nothing. You know that panic? That panic where there’s no way you’re going to go announce to your husband’s entire family that you managed to clog their relatively new large toilet. No way. There’s got to be a resolution.
And I saw it. Turn away now if you can’t handle traumatic adult poop stories. But there it was. Hanging in the shower. An old, rusty, disposable razor. There’s no way anyone has used it in months. No one would notice it was missing, right? And if they did, then what? They have to go buy another bag of $3.00 disposable pink razors? Hardly a bad thing.
I grabbed it. And noted that the water level had gotten so low that I could reach in with no contact to my hands. This was going to work.
Sparing you the dirty details, picture me, sweaty and nervous, knowing my time was becoming short and people would be expecting me soon, fishing into the toilet with a pink disposable razor until the matter was taken care of enough for a clean flush.
Luckily I got to shower afterwards.