Husband, designer, phone plumber

June 01, 2007

I’m at work the other day, and I get a call from Liz. It’s nearly noon, so I debate briefly with myself on whether I should answer the phone and risk passing out from lack of nourishment, or eat my lunch and call her later. So I answer the phone, cause I’m a good husband, and terribly well trained.

“The toilet’s plugged.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s full of brown water, and it smells really bad.”

And that solved my hunger problem.

I proceed to walk her through the process of plunging the toilet, which wasn’t successful. After some short heated discussion on what constitutes a plumbing “emergency” when there are two other working toilets in the house, I went off to rekindle my appetite, while she promised to try the plunging again, even though she was quite sure that the five times she plunged before should have been enough to fix it, and why don’t I deal with this when I get home.

It should be noted that this is all the fault of our plus sized cat, who has trouble getting into the regular sized litter box, frequently exiting before being completely finished. She’s the orange one from the photo yesterday. The night before, she’d left remnants of her litter box trouble all over her woolly behind, requiring Liz and I to don our hazmat suits and wipe her down with paper towels. Scarlet was not pleased. The paper towels were less so, hoping instead for a simple life of holding my morning toast, or cleaning some mirrors.

The paper towels were disposed of in the toilet, where the next day, in response to our disrespect and their poor state of affairs, they would cause Liz no end of grief.

The phone rings 5 minutes later.

“It’s all fixed.”

“Really? What did you do?”

“I plunged it again.”

No need to thank me ma’am. It’s all in a days work for the Phone Plumber.

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