Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Baby wipes: $2.19; Roto-Rooter service call $413; The shame in having your asswipes fished out of a pipe by a stranger: Priceless

Who knew a few seemingly innocuous Target-brand baby wipes would end up costing almost as much as a Schecter Stiletto bass guitar?

While it's true that the package warns "do not flush", I thought that was another tree-hugger scare tactic like "global warming". Apparently they really mean do not flush. At least if you live in a house that was built during the hey-day of outhouses.

George, the kind Ghanaian service technician also informed us that "flushable" personal cleansing cloths and tampons are also sewer no-no's. Guess that means my hygiene will have to become as primitive as our plumbing. Lord knows I hate emptying the bathroom garbage can more than once a week.

I also have vowed to never again let a chicken set foot in my oven. Roasted poultry be damned after the crap (literally) I had to contend with to get a hot meal on the table for my family this evening.

Originally I had planned to have my significant other, Kevin pick up one of those delicious grocery store rotisserie chickens on his way home this evening. This was before the turds hanging out on our basement floor became a serious issue.

After work I called Roto-Rooter and they said they'd be out within an hour or so. I did not want to venture into the basement with a potentially creepy man to show him where human excrement was bubbling up from the foundation, so I told Kevin I would get a chicken to roast in hopes that he would get home quickly.

Things started out like a 1955 copy of Better Homes and Gardens. After treating the clucker to a nice bath, I gently fisted her with a palm full of salt and stuffed her cavity with a halved onion for moisture. I lovingly rubbed olive oil and seasons into her supple, plucked flesh and deposited her in the oven for a little r&r before the big show.

Now I've roasted a couple of chickens before and I've never had the entire first floor of my house fill up with smoke thirty minutes into the production. It's 85 degrees and humid outside, we don't have central air and our oven hood does not ventilate to anywhere. I wander around for ten minutes thinking I need a fresh pair of contact lenses before I realize that my three year old daughter is going to develop a smoker's cough from Tuesday night dinner if I don't do something quickly. We start opening windows to stave off asphyxiating before the first course.

Apparently the piece of wood propping open the dining room window decided to stop working. While frantically fanning smoke and boiling green beans I heard the window slam shut. Upon investigation, I see that the piece of wood has become wedged between the window frame and the sill. After dinner I ask Kevin to fix it. He tries opening it and CRACK. Broken glass and an indignant toddler asking "Why did you do that?"

Summary:
If the sewer wouldn't have backed up, I wouldn't have roasted the chicken. If I wouldn't have roasted the chicken, I wouldn't have opened the window. If I wouldn't have opened the window, the glass would still be intact. Ergo, no more roasted chickens in this household.

None of this stuff is a big deal and I'm not terribly upset by any of it. The plumbing issue was resolved, the chicken was edible and tomorrow morning I'll take the window frame to get repaired. It's just money and time, our most precious commodities these days. On a night like tonight you just have to laugh. And drink. I recommend Guinness.

Last time we had an evening like this it involved a dying refrigerator, bats and a six-foot tall drunk Mexican. But that's another story.

Namaste, Ann O

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I loved this story - it would have been funny if you invisioned it. It's funnier that is really happened.