I went to wash the dishes in the sink and found that one side filled up rapidly and then the other side began to fill up. No amount of fiddling with the drains would make the foul water (semi-filled with stale flower water which, as many of you may know, smells remarkably like bong water) go down the drain. Faced with a dilemma, I call hubby-to-be and tell him to pick up Drano at the Walmart on his way home.
HTB pours half a bottle of Drano in the sink, evidently leaving strict instructions to let it sit for at least 15 minutes before flushing with hot water. I must have been off in some other compartment in my own head even though I’ve dealt with Drano on many occasion before.
I send HTB out to the usual Saturday at-the-Picadilly with his family because my son and I had already eaten a late lunch and I felt it would be a waste to add empty calories to an already empty wallet that was about to embark on a four day journey to South Carolina. No sooner had he left then I decide to pour some additional Drano into the sink and run scalding hot water into the deadly calm waters. Nothing doing. Just more water.
Armed with the knowledge that I have a reputation for never finishing what I start, I eyeball the stack of dirty dishes and decide to tackle this little problem on my own. Really, how hard can it be to turn off the water, unhook a couple of elbow joints and grab a coat hanger and snake out a drain? Sounds reasonable, right?
Shut off water. Righty tighty, lefty loosey. Ooops! Must get a bucket – both sinks are filled with swamp water and it has to go somewhere when I get that first piece of PVC off. The bucket is at the ready and off comes the first elbow joint. Forgetting entirely that there are TWO sinks attached to this the elbow, the left sink sprays foulness straight up in the air while the other pours out into the bucket. The bucket fills and now the entire floor is covered in water which is pouring from the cabinet in a tidal wave that rivals the 2006 tsunami. Only…it REEKS of Drano.
I scream to my son to grab towels. He goes for paper towels. “NO!!!! REAL TOWELS!!! FROM THE CLOSET!!!!” I throw them on the floor as quickly as possible and just as quickly watch in horror as HTB’s good towels turn from pale green to a toxic orange. Gah! What to do? Call HTB. Not happy. But they’re just towels. Okay. Clean up the mess and get the towels into a garbage bag outside the front door.
Gloves? Damn. My fingers are burned, my lungs are searing, and my eyes are watering. Got. to. open. a. window. Totally lightheaded. Call HTB. “How do you open a window in here?” Incredulous response. Not really what I was hoping for. Hmmm…HTB isn’t sounding so pleasant. Dipshit that I am, I finally figure out how to disconnect the outdoor thermometer, open the window, then open the storm window while the cat tries desperately to escape from the madness, and succeed in getting the screen down to a somewhat manageable level. Decide it best to turn off the heat as fumes may cause the house to explode when the pilot light goes on again. Still have some brain cells working.
I spend the next three hours disconnecting and reconnecting all the piping under the sink alternated with bouts of vomiting, lying face down on the bathroom floor wondering why I didn’t just leave well-enough alone, sending delirious text messages to hopefully still HTB to get him home to fix the wreckage. Eventually I decide that it might be worth a call to the landlord in the morning and put it all back together, shove bowels and buckets under the now leaking joints, put all the cleaning supplies neatly back under the counter…
and do all the dishes in the bathroom sink.
Never let it be said that Lady Di won’t follow through on a task she sets for herself.
And as for HTB? At midnight that was still up in the air. By the time he returns home on Wednesday, I hope he’s forgiven my transgressions, has decided I’m not quite as psycho as I seem, and am worth marrying after all. I mean, really, wasn’t it all kind of charming in a half-assed, crazy, what-were-you-thinking way?