I scrubbed my bathtub today, and encountered a serious problem. This problem was not entirely unexpected as I had heard the maintenance guys snaking the drain of the apartment upstairs yesterday before I left for work. I did not expect the ensuing mess to be as troublesome as it was, however.
While I was rinsing off the scrubbing agent, I quickly ascertained that my drain was horribly blocked. I finished the scrubbing job, rinsed my hands, raised a fist and a curse over head, and grabbed my trusty plunger. Why a plunger for a bathtub you ask? 1. It works better than a snake. Yes, it's grosser because the clots of hair come back up, but those clots won't be bothering anyone else. 2. I don't have to wait for the maintenance guys. They're nice dudes, but they've got better things to do then piss off tenants by passing a clot down to the next two apartments. 3. It's good exercise. I spent twenty minutes pounding away on that frigging drain, and holding a damp cloth over the overflow hole.**
I guess I'm saying that I'm proactive. About certain things. I guess I'm also sick of my upstairs neighbor being a moron about drains. She tried to run a whole mess of godonlyknowswhatsquamousmess down her disposal in her first month, and that crap ended up all over my kitchen floor. Maybe don't shove an entire turkey, plastic bag included, down your drain? Maybe get one of those handy drain covers that you can clean off after each shower? Maybe then I won't blog about your nasty hair in my bathtub. Don't try and hide it by dyeing it either, you aren't fooling me.
* Post title inspired and/or stolen from last night's Dethklok episodes.
** Without that, you can't work up enough Dyson to make effective use of the plunger.
11 comments:
The last sentence of paragraph 2 is obscene.
If you got a problem, yo I'll solve it. With obscenities.
Oh, if obscenities are your "thing" as the kids are wont to say, check out my posts about baking cookies.
Even Blogger supports my habits with word captchas like "fatori."
Finally, the post about plumbing that I've been waiting for.
I take it you live in an old building, Chuckles.
Before there were building codes.
1940s, I think, ZRM.
Ahh. One-page building codes.
The first effective code in Wisconsin was 1933, I think. I imagine DC maybe got there before that, of course, but before that it was basically 'best practices'. Left up to whatever professionals were involved , if any.
A note of bemusement; when Frank Lloyd Wright became an architect, it was a brand-new profession, and had no procedure for licensing. If you had a drafting table, you could call yourself an architect. Most learned by doing, in the offices of engineers or other architects, or went to Europe to learn at the the established schools.
In other words, FLW was never licensed to practice.
Frank Lloyd Wright was never called an asshole, while he was driving down the street in his El Dorado.
Oh wait, yes he was.
I think he preferred red Cadillac convertibles, Chuckles.
But the asshole thing, yeah.
Why he was only five foot three, girls could not resist his stare. Consequently, Frank Lloyd Wright was seldom called an asshole. Not like me.
I don't care what you say, Chuck my man, I will not ignore these Burning Sensations.
O yes, I have the soundtrack, and am not the clueless old fart that you imagined I was. Hah! I OWN this day!
Spouckh, indeed! WEe shall meet on the battlefield of imaginary baked goods!!
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