There have been a kajillion times in the last year where I’ve added something to my Mental List Of Life Events Worthy Of Blogging About. But there’s never been time to actually take a minute and capture one of those ideas in a post. Because in the last twelve months I’ve been laid off, moved, consumed astonishing amounts of Grey Goose, been hired, decided that sleeping with dating a guy who lives on the fourth floor of my building was a good idea, and stopped sleeping with broken up with Building Boy. More recently, I have spent each morning promising God assorted vodka-related sacrifices if only He’d spare my dignity and let the person on the other side of the elevator door not be Building Boy or his current one night stand. Plus, re-watching Battlestar Galactica and the entire Joss Whedon catalog takes a serious investment of (wo)man hours. All in all, it’s been a busy year. But tonight, the universe gave me a free evening on the exact same day that something happened. You know, one of those humiliating life moments that has to be relayed to the Webosphere. Immediately.
And the story goes like this:
On Saturday morning, my kitchen sink got some sort of clog. It was one of those incidents which support my home ownership theories. Specifically, my belief that plumbing, mulching and bug squashing fall within the job duties of husbands, boyfriends, fathers and/or hired professionals. That stuff involves tools (which I do not have) and the ability to deal with Gross Stuff (which I can do but prefer to avoid). So, when the kitchen sink clogged, I called the Building Engineer for my rent-costs-more-than-my-parents’-mortgage-because-I-live-in-Dupont apartment. After all, I might only have 450-square-feet, but for the price I pay, I darn well will have somebody else fix my clogs.
Apparently, the property management company charges $150 for the Building Engineer to come out for non-emergencies over a holiday weekend. And gray, refuse-infested water coming up from my kitchen sink doesn’t qualify as an emergency until it overflows. In the interest of the Vodka Consumption Budget, I opted not to pay the fee and wait for the flooding to commence. Three hours later, the water was at the same half-way point it had been when I initially noticed the problem. But my 450-square-feet had developed a funky odor. So, I ran the faucet to encourage the swill level to rise and speed up the moment would I could again call the Building Engineer. But the darn sink just drained back to half-filled. Over the next few hours, there were a few more rounds of Encourage A Flood, but the water level still drained back to midpoint. And in the meantime, the smell had progressed from Mildly Unpleasant to Holy Mother Of God. Two hours later, my eyes were burning, but still not enough for me to suck it up and pay the fee. Finally, around mid-afternoon, I walked into the kitchen to check the water levels and found Bionic Kitty lapping up the sludge like it was manna from Cat Heaven. In that moment, I realized I was either going to pay $150 to the Building Engineer, $300 to the vet for cat stomach-pumping, or I’d have to fix the damn drain myself. A $10 bottle of Draino, a coat hanger and 20-minutes of Googleing “drain clog kitchen girl-friendly fix” later, the waters had receded.
But, before we go on, Seven Any Remaining Loyal Readers, there is something in my past that I must share:
Way back in law school, I happened to go to a sex toy party. I don’t recall the exact circumstances that led to my attendance, but the end result was me purchasing $150 worth of self-luvin’ equipment and a realization that I had answered more of the attendees’ questions than the sales lady. Long story short, that night led to a multi-year stint as a semi-successful Adult Accouterment Seller. It was a part-time job tailor made for me: I got to purchase product for retail prices and my vodka-loving ways were no longer solely funded by student loans and heavy flirting. Anyway, it’s been years since I’ve been in the battery operated business, but my personal inventory has remained more or less untouched. Last count, I had enough vibrators to rival my shoe collection.
Now, to resume my Tale of Personal Humiliation:
Last night, after watching the weather report, I begrudgingly decided it was time to un-Earth my Summer In A Swamp wardrobe. I spent the next 30 minutes pulling storage boxes, and the accompanying cat hair balls, from under the bed. This spiraled into a massive cleaning spree where I rotated my mattress, reorganized my entire under-bed-storage system, and sorted my Personal Satisfaction Inventory into the few items I actually used and those could be stowed in the empty summer clothes containers. And proper sex-toy storage is a big deal. Those things can grow funky bacteria or melt in inclement conditions. Trust me. So, before I packed away the so-big-it’s-only-for-display type dildos and jet-propulsion vibrators, I spent an hour carefully washing a multitude of sex toys and standing them on my one-square foot of kitchen counter. My intent was to let them air dry over night before I finished the packing process the next day.
Fast forward to this evening, when I came home…
After a long day at work, I dropped my purse and keys by the door and headed into the kitchen. All I could think about was making a margarita and figuring out the Dinner Situation. But as I walked in, I immediately noticed a big blue thing in the middle of the linoleum. Initially, I couldn’t figure out what the heck that thing was or how it got there. I panicked for about two seconds, as homicidal maniac and burglar scenarios ran through my head. But as I reached to turn on the light, I realized the big blue thing looked like a plunger. And then I realized I hadn’t cancelled my Building Engineer maintenance request from the weekend.
On my itsy-bitsy counter was a note from the Building Engineer telling me that he had come to fix the sink clog I’d called in, that it appeared the problem was fixed but he left some drain tablets and an industrial-sized plunger in case I ran into a problem in the future. And to my left, neatly and thoughtfully stacked on the butcher block cart I use to double my limited kitchen space, well out of the range of the sink, were roughly two dozen dildos, vibrators and assorted cock rings.
It might be time to move again…