What A Crappy Day

I was still a relatively new homeowner on the morning I walked out to my garage to go to work and noticed quite a lot of water gushing out of the side of my house through a vent pipe. (I’m going to pretend like I knew it was a vent pipe in that moment, and you’re going to play along.) Now, I’m normally pro water features, but this seemed bad. Since the pipe came through from the basement, I decided it would behoove me to go check there. Sure enough, water was dripping onto the concrete floor of the basement as well, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the leak outside. I quickly called the company I had previously used for plumbing problems and gave them an exact description of what was happening. They said they’d call me as soon as someone could come out. Seeing that the leak was slowing, and not knowing what else to do, I went to work.

I realize this isn’t OK in this day and age, but 20 years ago, I got pretty good traction with, “I’m a single woman living in a 100-year-old house. You can’t afford not to be my contractor of choice.” Perhaps because of that, in past instances, those plumbers had been able to squeeze me in over the lunch hour, but by 12:12 I hadn’t heard anything. So, I decided to quickly run out and grab lunch. Why they called my office number and not my cell phone, I’ll never know, but I’m told I was paged about 15 seconds after I walked out the door. Yes, it was them, and I missed the opening. Luckily, they called back at 2:15 and I rushed home to let the plumber in. He took one look and said, “Oh, we don’t do that.” He informed me that my sanitary line might be blocked, and the water had nowhere to go. That was likely my shower water I’d seen dramatically bursting out of my house that morning. He told me to wait a few days to see if it cleared up and gave me the names of two other companies that did sewer line work in case it didn’t resolve itself.

That seemed like strange advice (I really mean bad advice, but I don’t want to seem rude), so the second he pulled out of my driveway, I called one of those other companies. Incredibly, they were at my door 15 minutes later. I understood in principle what they were going to do – run a line with a little camera on it through the pipe to see if they could find any blockages and then remove them. But I hadn’t fully thought through how they’d get into the pipe. They removed the cleanout cap that separated my home from the sewer line. Well, it was like opening a portal to Hell. The blockage had built up some pressure in the line, so as soon as they took off the cap it was like they struck oil. Only it was, of course, raw sewage, spewing all over the floor. Thank goodness the basement is unfinished, but still.

They ran the scope through the pipe and cleared the blockage, but when they pulled the scope back out again, it brought debris with it, so tree roots and sewage “sludge” landed on my floor as well. They sprayed disinfectant over the whole tragic mess and then they fled, leaving cleanup to me. As we said goodbye (outside) I was handed an invoice, and a lecture. “Ma’am, we’d like to talk to you about the type of toilet paper you use.” When I told him my brand of choice, he reacted like I’d physically struck him. I was informed, “Charmin is not your friend.” Life is too short to use bad toilet paper, so the compromise I made was that I still use Charmin, but I worry about it every time I make the purchase.

Once they left, I closed all the doors to other rooms, opened all the windows and exterior doors, and cranked up the heat to make up for all that fresh air on a cool day. Then I steeled myself, went to my closet, chose clothes I knew I’d be throwing away afterward, and started cleaning. When I was done, I channeled every medical show I’d ever seen and washed my hands like a doctor scrubbing for surgery.

I learned that night that there’s really only so much a scented candle can do. I’m grateful I live in a safe neighborhood, because when I went to work the next day, I again left all my doors and windows wide open, and I still had possessions when I got home.

Speaking of work that next day, I was mortified when a coworker came to my desk to discuss a project we were working on and after a short while, he wrinkled his nose, sniffed, and asked, “Do you smell something?” Was it possible the odor was clinging to me? I’d practically taken a Silkwood shower that morning and the night before. In quick succession, two different coworkers came to my desk and did exactly the same thing. I was greatly relieved to realize I was being pranked. A friend at work had put them up to it. That friend more than redeemed himself when he lent me his wet-vac so I could repeatedly hose down and clean the floor. When the shit hits the fan, or the floor, that’s the kind of friend to have.