Patience grasshopper. If you wait for it, a blog will come to you.
I had nothing to write about today when I woke up. “Don’t worry,” I thought to myself, “something blogable is bound to happen during a full day of motherdom.” Well, it was actually a very peaceful day and it looked like I wouldn’t have a blog entry at all…until about an hour and a half ago.
Earlier today, I notice that my little cherub had thrown a sock into the toilet. I called her over, had her take a look and explained the myriad reasons why we don’t chuck our socks into the toilet. I gave her a rubber glove and had her fish it out herself. “Uck” she said as she dropped the dripping sock into the trash can. “Uck indeed,” I replied. “Don’t do it again.”
The rest of the day was quite peaceful–we went to storytime (a bit less of a freak show this time, thank Jesus), then we bought art supplies at the craft store, we picked up dinner ingredients at Stop & Shop, painted Valentines, baked chocolate chip muffins for Daddy, put together beaded bracelets, did a load of laundry, a load of dishes, watched Angelina Ballerina, got dinner ready for the oven, went to the potty, flushed…flushed…Oh. No.
The toilet isn’t flushing.
“Plunger! I need a plunger! Where the hell do we keep the plunger? This is not my department!” But while on my way to hunt for one I realized something. Where’s the other sock? We only took one out. Shit! I frantically searched the freshly washed laundry. No sock! I can’t find the plunger either. Double shit.
I finally found the plunger (who the fuck keeps a plunger on top of an oil tank? My husband, that’s who). After plunging, the toilet just kept filling and filling. I felt that panicky sinking feeling you get when a toilet is about to overflow and you know it and are powerless to stop it and you have visions of yourself on your hands and knees sopping up toilet water with any and all available absorptive substances up to and including your socks, while that water just keeps on a risin’. If you’re lucky, the overflowing toilet is at home and not, say, at a party where you don’t really know anyone and it just figures you’d be known to all as “the chick who overflowed the toilet and now everyone has to pee outside.” I always panic a little bit when I flush a toilet at a party because you never know. But I digress…
After a frantic call to my husband, who of course is not available on cell nor desk phone, I am sitting here blogging about how my toilet got fucked by a tiny toddler size sock, praying that I get a call back soon with further instructions on how exactly to handle this situation.
More hilarity is sure to ensue. Wait for it. The toilet is not fixed yet.