My husband flushed half a parmesan crusted baked potato down the toilet.
I’m not kidding.
I had made a kick ass dinner. Meatloaf with parmesan crusted baked potatoes and dilled carrots. It was comfort food extraordinaire. It was a “crushed it” kind of evening.
I was proud and happy and all was well with my world. Until…..
Half. A. Potato. Down. The. Toilet. Now I don’t know how big your toilet is but mine are standard normal sized toilets. No Paul Bunyon gargantuan toilets have we. I guess he figured by eyeballing it that the potato would safely fit in the pipes? I dunno. I’m a girl. If you ask me to measure something by sight by my reckoning a single room could potentially be an acre long instead of 10×13.
And speaking of girl rules; I don’t recall a couple of things:
First, the girl sit down in school where they told us that one day we would tackle great odds…like competing for power positions like POTUS or Roto-Rooting vegetation out of our toilets. Actually we were quietly instructed to keep our expectations reasonable so never in my wildest imagings did I think…
Second, ever learning proper etiquette at moments such as this. Is it bad form to tell your husband this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever seen? Is it rude to point out his heritage and there’s now verifiable proof why there are so many jokes about said heritage? I didn’t get this page in the marriage memo. What do I do?
My response was, I think we can safely say, non PC. We were having company that weekend, fifteen people, five of which were age seven and under. I reject your potato down the toilet. Fix that shit ASAP. So he did what he always does; he ignored me and did what he wanted to do. He tinkered around in the bathroom for about 20 minutes and lulled me into a false sense of security that our toilet was fixed and my hissy fit was effective.
Lies. Patent lies. My sweet, sweet Magilla lied to my face. “Yeah babe, of course it’s fixed”. That was a Thursday night. Friday he went fishing. My parents were over Friday night and someone inevitably had to tinkle. The toilet wouldn’t flush and also threatened to overflow; which I deem as a hostile; therefore I go into fight or flight mode (sidebar – I don’t possess the flight mode).
Sometimes with Magilla you have to be direct and use small words and non threatening gestures and by that I mean hide behind a door when you’re flipping him off and making pantomime strangling gestures. We had already had the plumber argument on Thursday. Twice. He wasn’t having any of it. Apparently, and I did not know this until I met him, it is an affront to one’s manhood to call in a plumber. No really, someone’s peepee might shrink an inch. It’s awful stuff.
So I did the next best thing. I recruited my daughter’s boyfriend who is a plumber’s apprentice to intervene on my behalf. I had been plunging the toilet for probably about twenty minutes in the attempt to dislodge the tuber from hell. I had depleted my considerable repertoire of cuss words and was repeating them. My father, bless his heart, had tried to help as well but he’s 78 soooo; I resumed. In my mind’s eye I remembered Little House on the Prairie. I think we read in it in 3rd or 4th grade and a woman came into my school dressed in a pioneer ensemble and taught us to churn butter. It took forever. So did dislodging my toilet. Similar motion. You get the gist and even if you don’t, just pretend at this point.
So there is my daughter’s boyfriend, Cthulhu Jones or CJ as I like to call him, beside me when suddenly there was a sound of movement; kind of like suction had taken hold. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have to explain to our guests that my husband has psychopathic tendencies towards vegetables. There was a thump and then a whoosh.
I turned to CJ and asked, “Is that the sound of a potato clearing the pipe?”
He turned to me and said in all sincerity, “Is there any training in the world that would equip me to answer that question?”
I replied, “No. But I’m willing to accept a lie at this point.”
And with that…Magilla rolled up into our house, all smiles and platitudes. He was only being nice so I wouldn’t throw a pot at his head. Let’s be real. We do a real quick recap of activities which include me mentioning his lack of judgement. He turns to CJ and says, “You busy?” Yeah, we all know how that goes.
So the two of them schlep off to Home Depot to buy a snake or a gopher or whatever the hell it is men use to clear a pipe, which I think we’ve firmly established…is not a potato. They come home with a 9 foot pipe that looks like it has a fan on the end. I’m suspicious of this instrument but I’m desperate at this point. My only question was whether it was purchased or rented. It was purchased.
Look, I’m not proud. God only knows what he’ll do around Thanksgiving. And Christmas is right around the corner from that. I cook yams y’all. I mean where does it end? A ham? Turkey? Potatoes could be the gateway flush, you don’t know and you have to be prepared in this world.
Oh yes, hand off ladies……….he’s miiiiiiiiiiiiiine.