Now, my brother and his betrothed are doing things the old fashioned way (a.k.a. not living in sin like the rest of us heathens). So they currently live in two different apartments, though a few months ago they got the cutest witto doggy woggy on da face of da ho pwanet.
I present you with Tank (and Nick):
Anyone need an ad for puppies? DONE.
It just so happened that the party was planned for my brother's birthday weekend, when he'd be out of town visiting friends out of state. This led my sis-in-law-to-be to call, asking if she could bring her witto doggy woggy with her to the party so that the poor little guy wouldn't be kenneled for the entire day. Because of our backyard little boy and dog paradise, I assured her it was no problem and that she need never ask but just bring ol' Tankster along.
When she arrived, she nervously walked down the hallway upstairs shutting doors, explaining, "I'd just hate him to get into something where we couldn't see him, you know?"
I, at the same time, was bopping around like a spaz-tastic lame woman, asking folks if they needed help with anything. After they assured me they did not, or asked for things like, "Do you have a pair of scissors?" I instead busied myself with taking coats and pouring drinks and stopping periodically to make sure my children weren't underfoot or otherwise being obnoxious (yes and yes on both counts).
At one point, just as all the guests were convening downstairs in the family room waiting for festivities to get underway, I checked on Will, who was in his room (finally) playing nicely.
"What's up bud?" I asked.
"I not want Tank in my room," he replied, trying in vain to shoo the dog out of his room the way one might ineffectively swat at fruit flies.
"Why not? You like playing with Tank, right?"
"Yeah, but he smells bad!"
Laughing at this, I replied, "Maybe YOU smell bad, dude."
But then, taking a few steps from the door of his room down the hallway, I smelt it, too.
Poking my head in the only door left standing open in that hallway, I saw it.
On the bathroom floor.
Two piles of steaming poo.
There was no way my little scented candle was going to mask THAT.
Great, I thought. But at the same time, No one needs to stress about this. No one needs to know about this. I'll just clean this up and no one will ever be the wiser and dog poo will not mar this beautiful day for my soon-to-be sister-in-law at all.
So, quickly, without alerting any of the other gals buzzing around my kitchen, I grabbed the paper towels, a plastic grocery bag and lysol wipes and headed toward my covert operation. I closed myself in the bathroom and locked the door for good measure.
As I knelt down to the task at hand, another thought occurred to me: If I carried a bag full of steaming poo and lysol wipes back through the kitchen to the garage, the other gals would see it and surely smell it. The kitchen where the beautiful cake and yummy smelling food were being assembled by lovely ladies prepping for their loved one's special party.
Self? I thought, Why don't you just FLUSH IT?!?
And then, as I contemplated just how much poo might be possibly flushed in one "go", I thought, Careful, self. You don't want to flush too much at one time!
After which? I PROCEEDED TO DO JUST THAT.
Damn. Now I had a house full of guests where everything's pretty and girlie and lovely and smells good and here I am, locked in my own bathroom cleaning up poop and my kids are off doing who knows what and now my toilet is backing up.
Self? No big deal. We can handle this. See? The plunger's even right there, in its nice little plunger holder that makes it look just a wee bit less distgusting than it really is. Thank god for boys who make keeping a plunger in the bathroom a necessity, right?
So I grab the handle and lift. Only the entire "ensemble" comes with it. What's supposed to happen is that these little jaw-like things that enclose the plunger and its nastiness open when you lift it. Only I'm not really certain on that, because while I bought the stupid thing and its decorative masking-but-really-who-are-we-kidding-its-a-plunger-sitting-there holder, I've never actually used it. Cuz that's man's work.
So I push down on it. Nothing. I twist the handle. Nada. I pick it up and slam it into the floor. Bupkis. I even stoop down and try to pry the plunger-holder open. It may as well have been a steel trap.
Well now what the hell do I do? I'm trapped in my own bathroom with steaming poo on the floor, a toilet that (mercifully) has stopped backing up with the water just below the rim (complete with dog poo and paper towels swirling around in it), a plunger that is un-usable and what may as well be 56,000 guests putting up with my children's obnoxious "Grandma fed me candy!" antics.
I want to cry. I want wine. I want the blasted plunger thingie to open up!
So I pick it up and smash it into the floor some more. Just when I'm certain someone is going to come knock and ask if I'm communicating via Morse code that I'm stuck on the john without tp, the jaws of life open and release the plunger and I silently thank God.
Now...just how does one do this thing? Because, confession: I've never actually used one successfully. EVER.
Call me lame, I don't care. I've tried, and let me say that is one life skill I thought I might possibly be able to die without having to hone. Nuh-uh.
So, crossing my fingers and promising sacrifices to the potty gods, I stick the plunger in the bowl and pump it up and down.
Its not working.
I pump it some more.
What do I do if this doesn't work? Do I call the Hubster and ask him to swing by, in uniform, in his squad car while on shift to come home and some how stealthily fix the potty? I'm thinkin' that's a big NO.
So I lean on that bad boy for all its worth. Either this bitch will work or its getting shoved down the toilet and through the floor. C'mon dammit WORK!
And then...then...WOOSH...I hear it.
I SUCCESSFULLY PLUNGED THE MOTHER-LOVIN' TOILET!!!!
"I am strong...I am invincible..."
So the toilet flushes, I return the plunger to the holder where it will now NOT CLOSE, clean up the rest of the poo in commode-pleasing increments, and wipe down the affected area with disinfecting wipes. I wrestle with that blasted plunger-holder-thingie until it finally closes (probably never to open again) and then wash my hands. Like five times.
And return to the party, just in time for games and cake.