SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES.
After arriving home at 1a.m. Saturday morning from a girl’s night out of champagne chugging at a friend’s house (we finished off 9 bottles among the seven of us), I discovered a lagoon in the kitchen sink. Yes, sci fi‘s most famous alien creature, “The Clog,” had returned, and was bigger than ever.
I spent the morning reliving the high intensity workout from the week before, scooping bucket loads of murky water from the sink and emptying it into the toilet. The mixture of sludge looked so foul. I swear I saw the toilet seat shudder.
Once I finished the prep for the late afternoon surgical procedure, I waited for my husband, the sink surgeon, to arrive home from work. As soon as he shuffled into the kitchen, exhausted, hunched over like Quasimodo, he began barking out orders. No. Wait! The dog barked. My husband just issued orders.
“Get me the snake,” he yelled.
Poof! Whoosh! Bam! I was back with snake in hand, as my husband sunk to the floor, began detaching segments of pipe from the drain, and handing them to me.
“Snake the pipe,” he said, while he fiddled with his equipment beneath the sink.
“But, but,” I babbled, flustered by that fact that I was still a snaking virgin.
So, I downed a shot of scotch, grabbed the foreign looking appendage, and then held the unwieldy pipe, placing the curved end section, through which the sludge would ooze, over the garbage can. But before the ooze spewed forth, I ran into a problem when the snake rammed a hole in what turned out to be a corroded pipe.
Yes, the sink required additional surgery that would have to be scheduled for the following morning, as we had to wait for an EMS worker to fly the part in on ice to the hardware store in town. Not entirely true. There was no ice or EMS worker. Just my husband, who doesn’t have a medical degree, but has a driver’s license, which enabled him to drive into town the next day to get the part.
Quid Pro Flow.
The curved section of pipe fit snugly into the existing hardware, a pristine piece of plumbing prowess, in contrast to the outer kitchen grime consisting of dirt encrusted dishes and snake droppings on the floor.
Now the water runs freely through a gleaming stainless steel technological wonder, while the snake lays entombed inside a garbage bag swathed in sludge.
I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole or a six-foot Norwegian.